Manichaeisms of Control
by Riko
Summary: [Ch. 5: Cho Chang and the Reporters, Herm and Eros, Secrets and Lies.] Where you start has nothing to do with where you end up, and sometimes things are exactly as they seem. Boys. With girls on the side. (Slash.)
1. winds of change

A/N: It's my fervent belief that minor characters can be more interesting than the major ones. I like the minor characters. Although, make no mistake, this is a Harry/Draco story. It just may take a while to get there. Please bear with me.

Note #2: Beware of rampant out of character-ness.

Note #3: I love my Dean.

Note #4: But, I really love anyone's Draco.

Manichaeisms of Control

By Morgan Rowe

…Who owns nothing and never claims she does.

-winds of change-

__

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming

Or the moment of truth in your lies 

When everything seems like the movies 

Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive 

Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris"

A person is the sum of their experiences, a reflection on the world they live in, and, likewise, the world reflects a person right back. Although, the world is much more subtle about it. Raining tears, screaming gales: the world is more alive than it is ever given credit. And there's more to weather then you'd ever think, but far above it all is wind. Because wind brings whispers of change.

It began on a day filled with pathetic fallacy. 

A comfortable wind ruffled through the grass, picking up the seeds of very ordinary, common dandelions and whisking them of towards the much less ordinary Forbidden Forest.

"Are you accusing me of lying, Weasley?"

"Me? I would never! What I'm accusing you of is avoiding the question."

"Hah!" Lavender laughed and pulled another dandelion out of the lawn. She held it up towards the sun: too irregular to be a sphere, with the light surrounding it like a corona. Gloriously imperfect. And then, with a certain amount of determination, she grinned up at Ron.

Ron raised his eyebrows and smiled challengingly at Lavender, who was stretched across the grass with her head in his lap; both his robe and hers lay a fair distance away and most of the buttons on his crisp, white shirt were undone making him look adorably dishevelled. "Don't you dare."

Lavender simply snickered, took a deep breath and sent a puff towards Ron, a puff that carried its own flotilla of seeds into Ron's face. Instead of getting angry, Ron simply brushed the seeds away and proceeded to tickle Lavender senseless.

Soon, when Lavender's breath was coming in wheezing gasps, she gave in. "Alright! Alright! Fuck, Weasley. You win." She batted Ron's hand away.

To anyone watching, the whole affair would have looked horribly flirtatious, but Ron and Lavender didn't care. They'd long ago come to the conclusion that their relationship couldn't be defined. They weren't dating or in love. They were just two adolescents who recognized each other as being attractive but would never entertain the idea of _being _attracted. And the rest of the world could go fuck itself.

Ron flicked a curl off Lavender's face. "So, answer the question."

"What was the question again?" Lavender asked, widening her eyes to an impossible size and batting her eyelashes, all sugar and sweetness.

"Feh. Don't try that crap with me, Brown. I'm not Sprout."

"With the way you bloat up around pollen? You don't have to clarify, sugar." Ron glowered at her affectionately and Lavender sighed. "Who do I like? Honestly, could you come up with anything more juvenile?"

"Certainly." Ron held up his fingers and began to tick them off. "Is it true you have cooties? Buttercups or daisies? When you dumped sand in his hair it was 'cause you liked him, right? Can you come out to play? See, easy. Now tell."

Lavender hooked her legs together, letting her skirt ride scandalously high up her thigh, and looked at the sky. "It's not that simple, Weasley."

"Like never is." Ron nodded soberly.

---

A hot, impulsive breath of air flowed through the cracks of the window frame into a room that already could have benefited from weather stripping.

Dean was lying flat on his bed, his back making a right angle with his legs which were rested against the backboard of a chair he'd found lying around the dormitory. At this angle he could take advantage of the small stream of sunlight that managed to manoeuvre its why through the filthy windows of Gryffindor Tower. The sunlight lit the pages of his ratty copy of "Karl Marx: Selected Writings" enough that he could avoid using a lumos spell. Always a plus since they gave him headaches. 

The room's only other occupant, Seamus, was pacing back and forth in deep contemplation. His feet were scuffing against the floor in the way they always did when he was thinking hard about something. Years after he had graduated, Dean bet, there would still be a groove in the wood.

"This sucks."

Dean lowered his book, carefully hidden behind the December issue of Robelessbecause, while Dean liked to pretend he didn't care what the rest of the house thought about him, he had a certain image to maintain. "What sucks?"

"You want to know what sucks? This stupid school sucks. Fucking sucky school. That's what sucks."

"Not that I'm arguing, but why?"

"You and me, man. Our talents are going to waste here!" Seamus sat down on the bed huffily.

Dean dropped his feet to the floor and sat up, tossing the book and magazine off the bed. "We're two very talented motherfuckers, Seamus. Which talents were you talking about?"

"Why with our brains, intuition, street-smarts and my stunning good-looks," here Seamus paused for some preening that would have made Narcissus proud, "we could solve all the unsolved mysteries and untold crimes that lurk in Hogwarts' unseemly underbelly. Except Hogwarts, being the bitch it is, has no unseemly underbelly or even a seemly underbelly. Is an underbelly really that much to ask?"

Dean laughed. "A detective duo Seamus? Really?" He wasn't in the slightest bothered by the 'out of the blue'-ness of the idea. Seamus got bored easily, and when he got bored his mind floated to all sorts of different, far-off possibilities. Unlike Dean who preferred to base his thoughts solidly in fact and reality, or at least his perception of reality.

"Well why the fuck not?" Seamus jumped back to his feet and resumed pacing. Dean fell into his own thoughts and stopped watching, but that was okay. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. Suddenly Seamus came up short and whirled around with the expression of someone who had come across a fifty-dollar bill on the street, right before they realized it was in Canadian currency. "We could be like Cagney and Lacey!"

"You realize both Cagney and Lacey were women."

Seamus didn't miss a beat. "We could be like Holmes and Watson."

Dean rose to his feet. "Which would I be?"

The word 'Watson' formed on Seamus lips but a split second later his brain caught up. "Why Holmes of course!" He replied dismissively.

"Right." Dean clamped a hand on Seamus' shoulder; his eyes had gone all shiny and glittery with anticipation. "Let's get to work then."

Seamus boggled. "What? Weren't you just listening? Hogwarts, no unseemly underbelly, remember?"

Dean grinned like mad. "Oh yes. I remember. So if there's no unseemly underbelly for us to muck through, we make our own and _then_ we muck through it."

Seamus' face lit up like jack-o-lantern and the newly formed duo digressed into spasms of maniacal laughter.

---

The ancient air of the library stirred slightly, its only concession to the younger waves of change wafting outside.

A page flapped and Hermione slapped a hand down on it with barely a change in position, a practised manoeuvre. All around her were stacks of dusty books written by old men, each book as ridiculously large as the last so that you just _knew_ they were compensating for something.

At that moment, she was devouring one of the smaller volumes entitled Muggles and Magic: What They Got Right. It was research for a project, but given time she would have got around to reading it anyway.

Hermione didn't read because she wanted to know everything, although that was certainly part of it. A thirst to know anything, everything, from the deepest workings of magic to the ins and outs of her wand's technical manual. But, on a more fundamental level, it was because Hermione Granger loved words.

She turned the page and reached up to dig her fingers into her curls. Hermione was a full-body reader: she moved her lips along with her reading, she tapped her feet to the meter of the lines and she wriggled her hips when she found a passage she particularly liked. All in private, naturally, Hermione would die if she looked silly in public.

Ah, words. Words are powerful in a way that only a few people grasp. Hermione was one of those people. 

Everything that is so infinitely special about humanity started and ended in words. What was history if not a collection of words written or passed down by people who were long dead? What use was the information superhighway if there was no way to communicate the information? Oh yes, words have so much more power than simple magic. They have the power to move and inspire, to change and create, to hurt and destroy. Words define humanity. The idea was nearly orgasmic.

Or so Hermione thought. But what does she know? She's only 15.

---

Out near the Quidditch field the wind was a lot less gentle. Professor Sprout had claimed it was because the trees that had once sheltered the area had been torn down to make room for the turf, so nothing was left to temper the wind. Dean had called her a closet tree-hugger.

Whatever the reason it made life harder for the players. In the air, little dots that flashed of silver and green fought, trying to make their way somewhere, anywhere, against the violent headwinds. 

From down near the entrance Harry watched, amused by their difficulty and impressed too. If it had been Gryffindor's day to practice they would have cancelled it. There was something to be said for Slytherin pigheaded stubbornness.

A player, who Harry knew was Slytherin's captain because he'd just come from an argument with the boy, took off into the air and flew straight into a bludger which had been blown into his path. Harry laughed.

"Really, Potter." He knew that voice: frosty as an arctic wind and twice as biting. He cast a glare over his shoulder at Draco Malfoy and then resumed watching as the Slytherin, broom in hand, stepped up beside him. Malfoy's eyes were also fixated on the practise, and he didn't show the slightest interest in Harry. Oh no. "I know Gryffindor isn't ready for tomorrow's match, but stealing Slytherin strategies…" Malfoy loved to alliterate the letter 's'. It made a hissing sound like a snake. _Parselmouth wannabe_. 

"What strategy? You mean all this 'dive, shoot, kick people off brooms' crap. You call that strategy? I thought you Slytherin were supposed to be cunning?"

Malfoy stiffened and his smile froze in a way that made him look constipated before smoothing out into a smirk. "You've always had a selective memory Potter. I believe it went 'those cunning (and unfairly good-looking) folk use any means to achieve their ends.' Any means, see?"

"Do you ever get a hernia from kissing your own ass Malfoy?" Harry snapped.

Malfoy's eyes flickered in his direction filled with contempt. "Not all of us have been so **special and gifted**that people have been begging to do it for us since we were born." He swung a leg over the broom and kicked off, rising into the air. "Eh, wonder boy?" And then he was flying away, just another silver speck.

Harry shivered with anger and wondered why Malfoy always got the last word. With a silent vow (not the first and most likely not the last) not to let it happen again, Harry turned and left the arena with one last glance into the air. 

The wind died. Some things never change. And some things just don't need the foreshadowing.

- end part one - 


	2. catch, caught

A/N: I love the world! In a totally platonic way of course. 

-catch, caught-

__

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark   
  
_We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks_

Bonnie Tyler, "Total Eclipse of the Heart"

Quidditch was in the air.

It was 3 am, the sun wouldn't even be considering rising for another hour, when Colin Creevey jumped out of bed. It was time for his pre-game routine. Careful not to make a sound, Colin crept down the rows of beds towards Harry's.

He knew his fascination with Harry teetered on the brink of obsession sometimes (the other boys called him Colin Creepy behind his back. _Very funny, Seamus_.) But it never really bothered him. Harry **was** special, no one would dispute it, so shouldn't he be treated that way? Besides, Harry had saved Colin's life back when he was a firstie. The way Colin saw it he owed Harry the obsession.

As a result of this Colin had assigned himself the task of making sure Harry was taken care of before every Quidditch match. This mostly involved waking him up early enough to dress leisurely, collect his homework (and do some of it as well), spruce up his broom and get down to breakfast before all the good stuff was gone.

Harry never thanked Colin for waking him up each morning (usually what he said was something like "Oh, hell Creevey. Go AWAY!"), but Colin knew it was appreciated.

He was so focused on his mission this morning that he didn't notice that neither Seamus nor Dean was in bed.

--

Dark corners in dusty halls. Low lighting. The perfect place for a romantic rendezvous or something less on the up-and-up. Two boys walked quickly and silently down the hall. Well… almost silently.

"Do-do-dodo! Do-do-dodo!"

  
"Shush."

"Do-do-dodo! Do-do-dodo!"

"Quiet."

"Do-ba-dee! Do-ba-dee! Do-"

Dean spun around and clamped a hand over Seamus' mouth. "What are you doing?"

"Ish wower 'eme 'ong." Which translated to something like "It's our theme song."

Dean snorted, took his hand away and wiped it against his jeans. Ew, Seamus slobber. "Really? It sounded a lot like Mission Impossible to me."

"Well, yes. But…"

"Don't care. Don't need to hear it. Just be quiet ok?"

Seamus shrugged carelessly and Dean turned back to what he'd been doing before. Looking around corners, huddling in shadows, wonderfully suspicious looking stuff. Seamus leaned against the wall and shuffled through his pack of Chocolate Frog cards. Dean could be such a killjoy sometimes.

And he was bossy too. Some people might wonder why Seamus hung around with Dean considering this, but the answer was simple. Seamus may have had a lot of fun ideas, but only Dean could actually make them work.

"Someone's coming." Dean whispered. He didn't have to whisper; no one ever used these halls anyway. But it was all part of the Atmosphere. 

A cloaked figure reached the corner and stopped. "Is that you, Seeker?"

__

Codenames. Oh, clever Dean. And good fun too. Maybe you aren't such a bore.

"Sure is Snitch, and Keeper is with me."

Seamus tugged on Dean's cloak. "Is that me?"

"Yes." Dean hissed back, aiming a half-hearted elbow at Seamus' stomach. "Shut up." Snitch laughed. "You shut up too." Dean ordered.

"Right." Snitch chuckled. "What do you need?"

"At the moment? Information. In the long term? Your loyalty."

Snitch's surprise was nearly audible. "My loyalty? That's going to cost you." 

Dean glanced deviously back at Seamus, his eyes zeroing in on the deck of cards. "We can give you Morgana, Agrippa and Merlin." He offered.

"Morgana!" Snitch exclaimed. "I've been looking for that one forever!"

Seamus squeaked. "But wait! These are my cards! Dea- I mean Seeker! That's not fair."

"To each according to his need, from each according to his abilities." Dean quoted. "Fork them the fuck over."

Sighing, and not at all happy with the idea, Seamus handed over the cards. "Fucking Commie." He whispered.

"Marxist." Dean corrected, placing the cards at the corner. A pale hand reached out and grabbed them. Seamus couldn't help but whimper.

There was a pause as Snitch inspected the goods. Then, "what sort of information do you need right now?"

"We've got this map of the school." Dean handed the map around the corner, ignoring Seamus' dazed "we do?" and continued. "We want you to locate and draw the entrances to all four of the houses on here." 

Snitch seemed to think about it for a moment before saying slowly, "Alright. I'm in. I'll contact you later."

"Right." Dean nodded. "Be quick about it alright?" And with that he twirled around and headed back to the commonly used hallways, dragging Seamus after him.

As the two headed up the corridor, Snitch could hear Seamus protesting. "Aw. Dea- Keeper! What the hell is going on? Why don't you ever tell me anything?"

And Dean replying. "I'll explain in Potions. And you're Keeper. I'm Seeker. Get it straight."

Snitch smiled, rolled up the map and pocketed her new cards before disappearing to do some serious spy work.

--

Lavender tossed a thick bunch of curls over her shoulder and chewed thoughtfully. Another lunch before a Quidditch game, another chance to offer Harry moral support.

"Don't worry Harry." Hermione was saying, leaning over a book and dipping the ends of her hair in mustard. "You know you'll do fine. You always do."

Harry laughed. "I thought you taught me never to underestimate my opponent."

Hermione flushed and sniffed primly. "Of course, in most cases." She winked, a very un-Hermione thing to do. "But we are talking about Malfoy here."

The whole table laughed except for Harry who shifted uncomfortably. "I should underestimate him least of all." He said in a tiny voice no one but Lavender caught. She looked up at him and they regarded each other for a moment before he looked away and cleared his throat. "Where's Ron?"

"There he is." Pavarti declared, pointing across the hall towards the Ravenclaw table. She wiggled her eyebrows and whispered to Lavender. "And who is that on his arm?"

"Krystal." Lavender replied through mouthfuls.

Pavarti looked surprised. "I thought he was going with…uh… that girl with the funny accent."

Lavender shook her head. "Not anymore. This one," Lavender gestured with her chin, "is new."

Pavarti whistled. "She's cute."

Ron was leaning over the Ravenclaw table chatting with a girl about a year older than he was. She had wavy chestnut brown hair and big brown eyes. And she was a Ravenclaw so she had to be smart.

Lavender leaned on the table and sighed dramatically. "Look at her. Does she, you know, remind you of anyone?"

Pavarti giggled. "He's in such denial."

Lavender cast a glance towards Hermione who was watching Ron, her face tight and pale. "He's not the only one."

"Calm down Hermione." Harry whispered quietly. "He doesn't know. You should tell him how you-"

Hermione slammed her book shut. "There's nothing to tell!" she snapped and stormed off.

Harry exhaled. "Right."

Ron had finished his conversation with Krystal and was heading towards the Gryffindor table when Seamus and Dean walked in. Lavender's head snapped up, and her eyes followed them across the hall. Halfway to the Gryffindor table Seamus stopped and bent over to tie his shoelace.

"Mmmm…" Lavender purred. "Baby."

"Baby?" Ron asked.

Lavender glanced up in surprise and blushed. "Nothing." She muttered and stuffed a sandwich into her mouth.

Ron laughed.

--

Colin was going into hour thirteen of the pre-game preparations. He was dressed in a Quidditch robe he'd swiped from the boy's change room the day before. It was a bit too big for him; the collar hung down around his bellybutton and the usually flared sleeves brushed the ground when he walked. 

Delicately Colin picked up his wand and pointed it at his forehead. "Maqio," he whispered and a dark red lightning bolt materialized on his scalp. Grinning like a deviant Colin shoved a pair of glasses (with the lenses popped out) onto his face and twirled. He liked the swishing sounds the robe made. Satisfied, he struck a pose.

He was ready.

-- 

It's a shame more wizards don't own barometers. Their ability to predict weather is as fascinating as it is useful. But they are Muggle devices and most wizards, even those not align with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, think that owning such things is beneath them. 

Dumbledore had a barometer. He'd bought it one day at a flea market and had kept it on his desk since. He never mentioned it to anyone and the few that had seen it never really understood what it was supposed to do. Which was the way Dumbledore wanted it. Nature, he felt, wasn't meant to be predicted. If nature wanted you wet, you'd get wet. If nature wanted you burnt, well then you'd burn. So if he knew a low-pressure system was moving in, he wouldn't tell anyone. 

So it didn't matter that Dumbledore wasn't in his office as the Quidditch game started. He wouldn't have told a soul what he saw anyway. And what he would have seen was the point on the barometer plummet from "it's going to be a lovely day" down to "wow, is it ever going to pour."

--

Little Ginny Weasley wasn't so little anymore. It was hard to remember sometimes that she was only a year younger than Ron was. Maybe it was the pigtails or the fact that her feet didn't touch the ground when she sat on the bleachers. It was easy to underestimate Ginny Weasley, and sometimes that made it easier for Ginny to get what she wanted to do done.

If Ginny had her choice, she'd burn every broom in the world. She hated Quidditch. It was an ugly, testosterone driven monstrosity invented by boys to be played by boys. Or girls who looked like boys. _Yes, that's right Katie Bell, you look like a man!_ It was disgusting and repetitive, and Ginny loathed the idea that it was required for students to attend all the games.

So they could be **supervised**.

Ginny sneered as the players flew out onto the field and began to do their warm up laps to the beat of a thousand cheering voices.

Oh how she hated this sport. Hate, hate, hate.

The Quaffle was released and the two sides slammed into each other in a mess of red and green. A Gryffindor had the Quaffle and was buzzing down the field until a Slytherin grabbed it and headed in the opposite direction. Then a Gryffindor grabbed it and headed back to the Slytherin end zone. Wash, rinse, **repeat**.

Hovering above the masses were Harry and Malfoy. _Oh aren't they fucking talented_. 

Seeker was definitely the stupidest position on the team. You sat. And sat. And sat and sat and sat. And then, when you finally did something useful, the game was over. By definition. Seeker, as Ginny saw it, was for pretty-boy patsies who didn't have the strength to be Beaters, the reflexes to be Keepers, or the dodging abilities to be Chasers.

__

Malfoy fits the pretty-boy category all right, but Harry doesn't even have that going for him.

Ginny's crush had been washed away long ago by her tears. All that was left was bitterness and hatred. She attributed much of what she had become to Harry's thick-skulled obliviousness for her affections. She had cried. But now she was a salt warrior who didn't want to fight anymore.

Ginny felt a wet drop on her cheek. Not tears, rain. She raised her eyes as the clouds burst into torrents, turning the Quidditch turf into muddy disarray. Ginny laughed. The stakes were much higher now; first one to fall would get a face full of mud.

--

Harry was tired. He was sore. But most of all, he was wet. There was no wind, so the rain was coming down like a solid wall. It made staying on the broom a trick because the broom handle was terribly slippery.

And, god, was the visibility ever poor. Seeing the Snitch was going to be nearly impossible. A flash of gold in all this grey? Hah, he didn't have a chance.

Speaking of flashes of gold, where was Malfoy? Harry whipped around, searching for the blonde hair in the muted colours below him. Finally he spotted the Slytherin Seeker yards off, accelerating towards the ground.

__

He's seen the Snitch!

And there was no way Harry could beat him there. Malfoy had too much of a head start.

No! That couldn't be! Harry won. He always won! Because…well, because he was the good guy, dammit!

Good guy?

Well, protagonist.

Harry bit his lip hard and took off into the blinding rain. He was a Gryffindor; he wouldn't go down without trying. Not without a fight.

Or, at least, that was the intention to begin with.

The hat had said Slytherin. Why?

Because Harry wasn't all that he seemed? He had a hidden dark side?

No, because Harry was exactly what he seemed, his dark side wasn't as hidden as he would have liked to think.

There was only one way to win. One course of action to take, and that was to…

"Oh my god!" shouted the announcer (Lee Jordan's replacement had yet to make a name for himself in the world of sport's broadcasting.) "Harry Potter has just tackled Draco Malfoy off his broom!"

Which is more or less what had happened. Except, it was more like Harry pouncing on Malfoy from behind, actually **jumping** off his broom, and hugging the Slytherin around the waist. Malfoy had been leaning forward to grab the Snitch, so the sudden weight was enough to pull him off his broom. He and Harry began to fall towards the mud-covered turf. 

At the last moment though, Malfoy had the sense to reach out and grab his broom by the bristles. The poor broom fought fiercely to support one wizard too many, slowing their plummet from breakneck to mildly dangerous. But not stopping it.

Malfoy landed first, on his stomach, sending up a wave of mucky water. Harry was right behind him, both arms outstretched to absorb the shock; he landed right above Malfoy with his nose pressed against the small of the other boy's back.

He didn't stay there long, once his brain had recovered from the vertigo and the numbness had left his arms Harry scrambled back, letting a filthy Malfoy push himself into a sitting position.

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy didn't whine about being covered in mud. Instead, he glanced at Harry and laughed scornfully. "Is that the Gryffindor idea of fair play?" And then, even more surprising, he began to hunt around in the mud.

Harry sat still on the cold wet ground looking perplexed and sort of like a wet puppy. "What are you doing?"

Malfoy didn't reply; he just continued thrashing around and throwing mud up in the air. He was concentrating hard, his brow knotted and his eyes stormy. He looked **intense**.

All of a sudden Harry saw a flash of gold near Malfoy's thumb. "Snitch!" He screeched and launched himself at it. Malfoy fell back in surprise and landed on his ass as Harry skidded past on a slide of mud. Harry came to a stop and looked around wildly. "Where'd it go?"

"Fucking moron." Malfoy muttered, getting back to his feet. He walked over to stand beside Harry and bent down. Methodically, Malfoy scooped up a large handful of mud and, with a great deal of pomp, slammed it down on Harry's head.

The brown muck oozed along Harry's forehead and down the bridge of his nose. He looked up at the smirking (naturally) Malfoy and gave a war cry before jumping at him.

--

Smack. Malfoy punched Harry.

"Ouch!" roared the crowd.

Whack. Harry punched him back.

"Oof!" they chorused.

Wham. Bop. Thud. Swoosh. Splat. A whole range of things happened and ended with the boys wrestling in the mud.

"Why isn't Madame Hooch doing anything to stop this?" blared the loudspeaker.

The reason was that Madame Hooch was currently trying to chase down one of the Slytherin Beaters, who was currently trying to chase down and beat one of the Gryffindor Chasers. No one could quite make out which ones.

Pow. Malfoy kicked Harry.

  
"That's right! Show 'im what a Slytherin is made of!" came the cheers from the Slytherin section.

Wallop. Harry hit Malfoy again.

"You can do it! Take him Harry!" Ron hollered.

Ginny looked at her brother and then collapsed in a paroxysm of giggles.

--

Potter wound up to punch again, slipped and fell backwards, reaching out with one hand to stop his fall and grabbing Draco's closest arm with the other. Draco, for his part, tripped over Potter's legs and fell, with a gasp for air, against him. His legs squeezed between Potter's thighs, one armed pinned beneath Potter's back and the other still caught in Potter's Seeker strong grip. Draco was, for all intents and purposes, trapped and helpless. But worse, Draco could see where Potter's free hand was moving.

__

Any means, right? And what am I if not a true Slytherin?

-- 

Malfoy was heavy for someone who looked so light. But then again, Malfoy was pressed so tight against him that everything seemed extreme. He could feel breath tickling his ear and then, without warning, Malfoy licked him.

Harry froze. _Wow that must taste bad_, he thought. Followed shortly by, _Hello? Malfoy **licked **me?_

Before Harry could kick him off or start screaming 'rape!', Malfoy scrambled off and danced away, tipping his head back into the rain. The water slide along his cheeks, turning the skin from brown to the lightest shade of pale imaginable. And he was laughing.

Harry pushed himself up and rubbed his cheek fiercely. "What th- What the hell?"

More laughter. "Just fucking with your mind Potter." A small snicker. "Just fucking with your mind."

"You've got issues, y'know." Harry turned away and looked at the muddy sea around his feet. He'd been sure he'd seen the Snitch there right before he'd slipped.

"Oh, and Potter? You almost had it." Harry spun around in time to see a flash of gold in Malfoy's palm before the loud speaker thundered over the crowd.

"Draco Malfoy has caught the Snitch. Slytherin wins." 

Harry's eyes widened and he sunk to his knees. "You, you…" The last words were lost in the rain and the cheering of Slytherin house.

- end part two -


	3. broken telephone

A/N: Plot! Well, kind of… The first person to identify where the whole "brilliant lunatic, impossible to predict" deal comes from gets to be my new best friend.

And Dean speaks Russian because it's sexy. Unh-hunh. *nods*

- broken telephone -

__

Everybody's playing the game,

  
But nobody's rules are the same.

  
Nobody's on nobody's side.

Florence, "Nobody's Side," Chess

Harry didn't sleep that night or well into the next morning.

After the Quidditch match he'd run into the change room as quickly as he could and taken a long, hot shower. By the time he emerged, he'd destroyed an entire bar of soap scrubbing his cheek. But it still didn't feel clean.

Harry wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. Well, besides the obvious: he'd been licked. By a boy. By **Malfoy**. But, out of it all, Harry couldn't pinpoint what bothered him the most. Maybe it was a combination of all three.

Or maybe it was because Harry didn't understand Malfoy's motives. The boy had two legs and two arms, didn't he? And all of them worked fine, didn't they? So why had he chosen to use his tongue to get Harry's attention! All right, Harry allowed, maybe he had been gripping Malfoy's arm too tightly for it to be used, but that still left him three options! Malfoy's reasons remained as enigmatic as ever.

Ron and the others had been very understanding; Hermione had even offered to do his homework for him that night, but nothing had cheered Harry up. "Don't worry, Harry." Ron had said in a last ditch attempt. "It was bound to happen someday. You couldn't go on winning forever. It's just a shame it was Malfoy who beat you."

Yes, it was Malfoy. It was weird because it was Malfoy. Maybe that was the real reason Harry couldn't let it go.

Or maybe it was… 

__

No! It was weird because it was Malfoy. End of story.

Except, why? Why had Malfoy licked him? With all the other choices available?

And so on, and so on. It was this kind of circular thinking that had kept Harry up, sitting on his bed, staring blankly at the wall until the sun began to rise.

It was nuts. It was **driving** him nuts. And Harry had a feeling that leaving his questions unanswered was a sure path to insomnia.

Unfortunately, the only person with the answers wasn't likely to co-operate. 

Still, (yes, Harry was **still **contradicting himself) he was a Gryffindor, right? Bravery in the face of almost certain humiliation was part of the package.

The question was how to go about it. Grabbing Malfoy after class was out; it was too high profile and bound to raise eyebrows on all sides of the fence. A meeting arranged by mail then, private and secret. And to ensure that Malfoy would come Harry would leave the letter unsigned, peek the little prig's curiosity.

It was perfect as it could get under the circumstances, so Harry stirred from his seat on his bed and rummaged around for a quill and a blank piece of paper. Then he set to writing the note.

--

Harry wasn't the only one up early that morning. In the girl's dorm, Lavender was on the floor, with her eyes closed, doing yoga.

When she was six, her youngest brother had hit her in the nose with a Bludger. For weeks afterward, Lavender had been certain that her nose was broken or that her teeth would fall out or something. But it never happened. What did happen was fear: since that day Lavender had never been able to play any sports involving balls.

So she did yoga instead.

It was relaxing, balancing and sitting in the padma-asana (the infamous lotus position) always freaked out Pavarti. "People just shouldn't be able to bend like that!" she always declared. But right now, Pavarti was asleep and Lavender was doing this for herself.

Unlike Harry she wasn't fretting over things that had happened. She was fretting about things to come. Well, things that would come if she could work up the courage.

Lavender worried when courage didn't come to her easily, because in Gryffindor if you didn't have bravery up to here you were a leftover. Gryffindor was the house of bravery, but it was also the house of leftovers: kids that didn't fit in anywhere. Only certain people are brilliant enough for Ravenclaw, blindly loyal enough for Hufflepuff or cunning bastards as Slytherin required; but anyone can be brave under the right circumstances so those that didn't fit anywhere else were tossed in Gryffindor. The leftovers.

Lavender Brown refused to be a leftover. But she couldn't help but be terrified by what she was about to do. She uncrossed her legs, walked over to her bed and began to write a letter.

A love letter. Oh my.

--

"Seeker – 

I found something you might want to see. Meet me in front of Charms class before breakfast.

Snitch."

--

"Snitch – 

Right. I'll be there.

Seeker."

--

Pansy Parkinson had brains and style and funds from here to eternity. She had everything she could ever want, except for Draco.

Now, as has already been said, Pansy was a smart girl and even if she wasn't she wouldn't mistake Draco's actions towards her for affection. You'd have to be a special kind of stupid to do that. But Pansy was optimistic; she figured he would come around on his on in time and she would wait forever if need be, because patience was another quality she had in spades.

What Pansy Parkinson was not was easily amused. She wasn't the sort who could be handed a crossword and be expected to sit still and fill it out. Pansy craved danger and excitement. She needed to move, to see, to do something that required thought and skill.

Which is why the idea of being a spy had appealed to her so much.

The idea had first come to her in fourth year when the Slytherins had ganged together to help Rita Skeeter. Pansy had been particularly good at getting information for Miss Skeeter and she could remember the very moment the older woman had smiled at her and said, "You've got talent, girl! You'd make quite the investigative journalist!"

She'd been so proud, but since then she had begun to think. Why wait years to become a journalist who writes stories for the good of mankind when right now in Hogwarts there were millions of stories students would pay to have told? Or not to have told as the case may be. 

It was right then and there that she had decided that life as a spy was the life for her. And then, two days ago, Dean Thomas had approached her with a proposition she couldn't ignore. Which brought her to the present, waiting in front of the Charms class instead of heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

"Parkinson?"

Pansy turned around and saw Dean coming up a flight of stairs towards her. She nodded. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Dean snorted. "You said before breakfast. It's still before breakfast isn't it?" He looked at the classroom behind her. "What did you need to show me?"

Pansy smiled mysteriously. "Come." And she took off down the hallway. Dean watched her leave for a moment before shaking his head and jogging to catch up. She glanced at him and pretended to be shocked. "Where's your tag-along?"

Dean kept his eyes forward. "Your note said you wanted to show me something. You didn't say anything about him."

"Mmmm…" Pansy knitted her eyebrows. "I just sort of assumed… Oh, well. This way I get you all to myself." Dean didn't say anything. "Ah!" Pansy stopped and turned to a large painting of a woman with pale skin dressed all in black. One of the woman's hands was stretched out as if she was inviting her audience to step into the painting and join her. "Here we are."

"Yeah? And?"

"Patience, Dean. Patience." Pansy reached up and placed her hand against the woman's, palm to palm. There was an odd, mechanical rumbling noise (although anything that could be described as mechanical in Hogwarts was odd) and the picture swung away revealing a dark corridor. Pansy looked to Dean for a reaction and was pleased to see his mouth open.

"Мой бог!" 

Pansy snickered and gestured toward the corridor. "Come on." She stepped into the tunnel with Dean behind her. The picture closed behind them with a whack. Dean jumped.

"Uh, can we get out again?"

"Really Dean. Do you think I'd get myself locked in a dark tunnel?"

Dean shrugged. "I make a habit of not making assumptions about you Slytherin. You never know when one of you might decide to sacrifice yourself to take one of us out."

Pansy pulled out her wand and flicked it. "Lumos. Don't give yourself so much credit, we all draw the line at self-sacrifice."

"I'll keep that in mind." Dean said distractedly, looking around. The tunnel wasn't actually a tunnel; it was a small room, empty except for the cobwebs and dust. Spiders skittered across the floor, shocked to see humans in the room after so many years. "What is this place?"

Pansy brushed a spider web out of her hair. "I have no idea. But come over here, this is what I wanted to show you."

Dean walked over to where Pansy stood, pointing at the wall. There in the wall was a stone that was a different colour from the others. Dean reached out to touch it and then snapped his hand back in shock. There wasn't a stone there at all. He reached for it again and this time he pushed his hand all the way through.

"An illusion? But, why is it here?"

"So you can hear everything that goes on in the other room, I'd guess."

Dean glanced at her. "What's the other room?"

Pansy tilted her head and smiled. "Charms class."

--

Breakfast was served every morning at seven and, like McDonald's, it would continue to be served until eleven; this way students with first period spares could enjoy sleeping in. So Dean, who like every other Gryffindor in his year with the exception of Hermione had that spare, wasn't alone for breakfast when he reached the Great Hall a little past 9:30. He slid into the free seat beside Seamus and began loading up the nearest plate.

"Where were you?" Seamus asked, ducking his head and whispering. He was trying to make sure the rest of the table didn't hear him. Not that they were listening. 

Lavender was bent over a piece of paper, scribbling frantically and…was that, yes it was, she was blushing. _Interesting…_

Pavarti had pinned Ron to his seat by sitting on him and was relentlessly grilling him on his newest girl. How had they met? What was she like? Was she really Hermione's long lost twin? 

Harry was also writing a letter. Although, he seemed to be having more difficulty than Lavender: he'd write a few sentences, grimace, crunch the paper into a ball, shove it into his backpack and start again. _But whom is he writing to?_

And down at the very end of the table was Neville, sitting quietly and watching. That kid was one of the few things that gave Dean the creeps.

"Where were you?" Seamus repeated, poking Dean in the arm. Hard.

"Ow. Stop that." Dean glared. "I was nowhere."

Seamus snorted and leaned in close. "Yeah right. You're never up before seven, and the only time your up before eight is when you sneak off to the owlery to pick up that package you get each month that you never want the rest of us to know about. Where were you?"

Ah, Seamus. Dean underestimated him too much at times. "I had a meeting."

"A meeting?" A look of puzzlement crossed Seamus' face followed all too soon by betrayal. "You were meeting with Snitch!"

Dean didn't answer.

"You were, weren't you? How the fuck could you do that? I'm your partner! We- We're doing this together!"

Dean frowned. He hated the implication that he needed to rely on someone almost as much as he hated the way Seamus trusted him completely. It was dangerous. "I work alone."

Seamus bit his lip, looking more hurt than Dean thought he had a right to. "Right man. What-the-fuck-ever." He grabbed his plate and stormed over to sit beside Neville.

Dean didn't have a chance to decide how stupid he'd just been, because at that moment Ron pushed Pavarti off his lap.

"Take that back!" He shouted.

But, Pavarti couldn't because she'd been tipped too far forward and had fallen across the table, tipping Lavender's orange juice over. Lavender yelped and grabbed her letter, scrambling away from the orange flood that was coming towards her and flipping Harry's eggs into his lap. It was then Harry's turn to yell and get to his feet, and he upset the entire orange juice pitcher over Ron, Neville and Seamus.

Dean blinked and then began to laugh.

"Oh shut up Thomas." Seamus snapped, squeezing OJ out of his robe.

Harry was brushing egg bits off his pants. "Good job Ron." 

Ron had the decency to blush.

Lavender sighed and put her letter next to Harry's on the bench. "Come on Pavarti, let's go clean ourselves up." She said and they left.

Ron smiled. "That's a good idea, come on guys."

The others followed Ron towards the door, but Harry paused. "Watch our stuff, ok Dean?" Dean nodded and made a dismissing motion with his hand.

Dean continued to eat after they'd left, although every now and then his eyes would wander to the letters on the bench. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity, he wandered over to the dirty end of the table and picked up Harry's letter. 

Dean scanned the page and made a 'hmm' noise: it was short but intriguing. Next, he picked up Lavender's letter and read through it, even more intriguing. Dean held both letters up to the light. They seemed finished even though neither was signed or addressed. Both had been written on the same parchment and came with identical, purple envelopes.

Dean shook his head as he switched the letters. 

__

They make it too easy sometimes.

--

No one learns anything in the period before lunch. Regardless of whether the period is ten minutes long or seventy-five, not a single student pays attention to what the teacher is saying.

Ginny Weasley certainly wasn't.

Ginny bit down on the tip of her quill and scowled at her paper. One more syllable and it was done.

Even though her attempts at poetry in first year had been disastrous, Ginny hadn't given up on it. She was quietly bitter, quietly determined, quietly angry: Ginny was a poet at heart, albeit a quiet one. 

McGonagall bites.

Transfiguration does to.

I hate this class lots.

She wasn't the kind of poet who wrote depressing sonnets about how the world hated her, mostly because on the average day the world didn't even notice she was there.

Ron's an idiot.

Hermione's name's too long.

Potter is a… a…

Jerk! Ginny smirked and tacked the word on to the end of her haiku. Yes, she really should have been listening to McGonagall's lecture, but she didn't care: it was **so** boring. Her seat was right next to the door and she'd bet a hundred galleons she could walk right out of class before McGonagall noticed.

There was a knock at the door. "Professor?"

McGonagall looked up. "Yes Madame Hooch?"

Hooch moved into the room. "I was hoping I could borrow two of your students to help me clean out the broom shed."

"Is this in preparation for the delivery?"

Hooch nodded and Colin Creevey's hand sped into the air.

"What delivery Professor?"

McGonagall smiled genuinely. "The school has managed to purchase a new set of Quidditch balls."

An excited buzz filled the room. It was well known that the old set had become too worn out to play with anymore. Especially since the Bludgers had recently stopped chasing people and had begun to simply float along behind them.

An idea occurred to Ginny. "When will the new balls get here?"

McGonagall looked at Ginny, clearly surprised although not as surprised as Hooch. Ginny knew it was an odd question for her of all people to ask.

"A week from tonight, Miss Weasley." Hooch answered.

Ginny nodded. A week was plenty enough time to form a plan. Maybe her dreams of destroying Quidditch weren't as impossible as she had thought.

--

After lunch came Potions. 

On regular days, Harry couldn't bear that class at all. He would have liked to pretend that the reason he hated the class so much was because Snape hated him with equal fervour, but that wasn't true. Snape didn't particularly hate Harry; he hated everyone. Just some, like Malfoy, less than others. Although that could have been because Malfoy had a lot of talent in Potions and Harry didn't. None of the Harry's excuses held up.

On regular days, Harry hated potions, but today wasn't regular. He entered the dungeon classroom with a feeling of anticipation and actually looking forward to being paired with Malfoy (it was inevitable). Harry had a letter to deliver, but that took a back seat as Snape entered.

Snape slammed the door as usual and made his way to the front of the class, sweeping the class with a glare that made half of them feel like dying and the other half feel inexplicably guilty.

"Today," Snape began in his brisk, no-nonsense manner, "we will be creating the I assigned you to read about last night. I've decided you will be handing in the final product to be marked." The class groaned; Snape's mouth twitched into a half smile. "If you've done your homework there is nothing to worry about. I'm sure by now you all know the partners I've chosen for you, so get to work."

A grumble rippled through the classroom as friends split up and moved off to work with enemies. Harry walked over to Malfoy's desk and sat down. Goyle gave Harry a menacing glare and rubbed his knuckles together: clearly someone was taking their bodyguard position very seriously today. Malfoy grinned and together they began to work.

"Snape's really stopped putting the effort he used to put into being evil." Malfoy commented as he chopped up a long green plant that looked a lot like celery. The comment was more to himself than to Harry.

"Yeah, he used to love making a big deal out of forcing you on me." There was a dramatic pause and then Harry winced. _Stupid accidental innuendo…_

If Malfoy had caught the double meaning he didn't show it. "He's really losing his edge." He smirked. "Like some other people I could mention. How does defeat taste, Potter?"

"You just couldn't leave it alone, could you Malfoy?"

"Why would I want to?"

"Human decency?"

Malfoy pretended to be appalled. "Where did you get the idea that I had any of **that**?"

"I don't know." Harry exhaled. "Silly me." Silly him indeed, what had he honestly expected? Malfoy to be civil? What a joke. Nothing had changed since yesterday, so why did Harry feel like everything had?

The rest of the potion was completed in silence. Malfoy, blissfully, had his mind on other things and Harry wasn't really in the mood for conversation.

When they had finally finished, Harry wiped his hands on his robe and looked at Malfoy. "How about you hand this into Snape." He'd half expected a fight over it, but Malfoy simply shrugged and picked up the vial with the finished liquid and swaggered off to find Snape.

Harry leaned back in his seat and looked around. No one was watching him, Malfoy wasn't around: it was **the** perfect opportunity, yet he was hesitating.

__

Less than a minute of class to go, Harry thought, _it's now or never_.

With a last burst of courage, Harry grabbed his letter and dropped it on top of Malfoy's Potions textbook just as the ball rang. He seized his own books and ran out of the room. Behind him he heard Ron and Hermione shout after him, and Malfoy exclaim, "who put this note here?"

--

No one understood why Hermione continued to take Muggle Studies. Being Muggle born herself, it didn't make any sense. 

But, Hermione enjoyed the class because it wasn't only about the Muggle world; it was about also about its relation to the Wizard world. It was fascinating. Take their current project for example. Each student was to write a paper about a Muggle myth that had a good deal of truth to it.

Besides, Lavender, Dean and Seamus were all taking the course. It was nice to have time away from Ron and Harry to get to know her other friends.

Seamus and Lavender walked in, laughing together and headed towards Hermione. Seamus took the seat beside her and Lavender sat behind him.

"Hey Hermione!" Seamus greeted her. "You missed the excitement at breakfast this morning!"

Hermione smiled. "So I've heard. Although I think I'll take Arithmancy over being covered in orange juice any day."

Seamus laughed and Lavender smiled lightly.

Dean rushed through the door just as the bell rang.

"Good timing Thomas!" A Hufflepuff yelled. Dean bowed dramatically and then glanced towards where Hermione and the others sat. He sneered.

Hermione was shocked. Sneered? Dean? She shifted around to interrogate Seamus, only to be doubly shocked at his matching scowl. _What is going on?_

"Seamus?"

Seamus' eyes remained glued to Dean. "I don't want to talk about it." He held up his middle finger and mouthed "fuck you" at Dean. Dean glowered and flicked his thumb forward from his teeth before taking a seat close to the front.

Hermione looked at Lavender. The other girl shrugged, but Hermione could see concern in her eyes.

Something was wrong. If Seamus and Dean, who usually acted like conjoined twins, weren't speaking to each other, something was very wrong indeed.

--

Dinner was tense. Ron wasn't speaking to Pavarti. Hermione wasn't speaking to Ron. Dean and Seamus were not only speaking to each other they were actively insulting each other. Harry wasn't speaking to anyone; he just sat and ate.

Ate. Harry was lucky; Lavender couldn't even do that. Near the end of the last period she'd slipped her note into Seamus' bag but he hadn't found it yet. It was driving her crazy with anticipation, and the desire to simply steal the letter back was becoming overwhelming. There were too many ifs, too many things that could go wrong.

So it was with a great deal of relief and a whole new breed of worry that she saw Seamus reach into his bag and pull out the letter just as they were leaving the Great Hall to head back to the common room.

--

Prig. Snob. Pretty-boy. Hottie. Bastard. Deatheater. Slytherin's prima donna. It was all reputation and there was nothing Draco valued more than reputation. Who gave a fuck what you were like on the inside: it was what appeared on the outside that made any difference at all. And that wasn't just Lucius Malfoy's upbringing talking, it was Draco's motto in life.

He was a Malfoy and that name brought a reputation by itself, but no one said Draco couldn't have a reputation of his own.

He presented himself as an enigma. A cipher. A brilliant lunatic. You couldn't tell which way he'd jump. Impossible to analyse, dissect or predict. Which, of course, meant he wasn't a lunatic at all.

Enigmatic was the word to describe Draco. And attractive. Being attractive was a very important part of being Draco Malfoy, because beautiful people can get away with more. A beautiful person can act like an ass and still have people fight to be his friend. Sure, you'd lose some potential friends that way, but there would always be someone else waiting to meet you.

The only problem was sometimes you'd be careless and then you might end up screwing up meeting the only person who really matters … Not that Draco felt he'd done that. Because he never had. Never…?

__

No. No never.

Double negative.

Draco prided himself on more than just his rep though. He also thought himself a pretty good judge of character. He liked to think he knew how to predict what anyone would do in any given situation. This wasn't completely unfounded either; he was very rarely surprised by anything that happened, which is why the letter interested him so much.

"I hope you realize I'm putting myself on the line just to write this letter. So please, before I confess keep in mind how much courage this is taking. Ready? Well here it goes: I love you. I'm not sure how long or when I started, but I know it's true.

Now, because I don't think I could stand you laughing in my face, I'm not going to tell you who I am. If you are curious, though, meet me in the Charms class at 9:15."

Draco traced the nine with a fingernail and nibbled on the inside of his cheek. _You didn't see that coming did you Draco? Now the next question is who sent it?_

--

Seamus read the letter again. It still wasn't making sense. Seamus couldn't claim to be a good judge of character, but there were certain people he'd always though he knew well enough to guess about. Although after what had happened this morning maybe it was time to re-evaluate everything he thought he knew.

"We need to talk about what happened. Meet me in Charms class at 9:00."

__

Well, Seamus flopped back on the bed, _if Dean wants to talk, we'll talk._

- end part three - 


	4. words of a hypocrite

A/N: Sorry all! I know it's been a while, but I got distracted. I'd like to thank all of you for being patient with me and everything. This chapter is dedicated to the development of Draco's character from what it seemed to be in the last chapters to what I meant it to be all along.

If you like him, let me know and also keep your eyes open for the short thing "A Child's War" which should be along soonish. Thanks to everyone for coming this far with me.

Here's a big thank you to all of you who've reviewed: Remy, Marionette, Celestinne, TheEvilReveiwer, Whippy, Kat, Maya/Sharon Armstrong, Drusilla, Lee-chan, TwistedSlytherin, the Anonymous Reviewer Person, Sheron and Val Mora. You people rock my world! Later days!

- words of a hypocrite - (Harry is about to unlearn everything he knows.)

__

Here I am expecting just a little bit too much from the wounded.

But I see, see through it all, see through, see you.

'Cause I threw you the obvious

To see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel,

Eyes of a tragedy.

A Perfect Circle, "3 Libras"

The hands of the clock (shaped long ago to resemble two intertwined snakes) pointed defiantly to 8:45.

Draco could have ground his teeth together. Draco could have chewed his nails. Draco could have thrown the tantrum to end all tantrums. Fortunately, Draco had more self-control than that.

Still, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that a single (cursed) letter could bring the focus of his entire world down to the movements of a clock! And a suspiciously un-Wizard like clock at that.

It wasn't fair. He wasn't a slave to his curiosity; he wouldn't let himself be.

In search of distraction, any distraction, Draco grabbed his Potions text and began to read.

Parkinson tittered.

Draco stiffened and glanced at the girl seated across the Commons from him. "Did you have something you'd like to say?"

"Not particularly." She replied. "It's just not often one gets to see you this nervous."

Draco frowned. "I am not nervous." He snapped icily.

She smiled sweetly. "Pull your claws back, kitten. I didn't mean anything by it. You've just been wildly out of character seen Potions, is all."

Draco had never understood (and prayed fervently never to understand) Parkinson's undying fascination with his 'character' as she termed it.

Tonight, though, he had to agree with her.

That letter (that stupid, fucking letter) had flapped the unflappable, riled the unrilable and sent the usually collected Draco Malfoy flying off balance. It was disconcerting at best, and, to Draco's oddly militaristic mind, it counted as a weakness he couldn't afford.

Leaving Parkinson's shot unanswered, Draco glanced up at the clock over the fireplace.

__

Surely it's 9:15 by now.

8:50, the clock read.

__

Stupid clock.

Draco slammed his book shut and got to his feet.

"Something wrong, hon?" Parkinson simpered.

"Of course not. I'm just going for a walk."

Parkinson bobbed her head. "Want some company?" She leered suggestively.

It was to Draco's credit that he didn't look ill. "No." And he walked out of the room so fast he didn't see Pansy reach under her seat cushion and pull out a horribly Muggle walkie-talkie. 

"Beautiful Blonde is on the move." She whispered.

"Roger that. Wonder Boy is in position," came the response.

Pansy grinned broadly, clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt and hurried after Draco.

--

Draco made short work of the stairway, taking the steps two at a time and humming to himself tunelessly.

Arriving twenty minutes early, it turned out, would play to his advantage. Walking blind into unknown (and possibly enemy) territory was just begging to be ambushed. An ambush leads to defeat, defeat leads to disgrace, and disgrace leads to a drop in reputation.

In Draco's world there was no excuse for that kind of lack of preparation or information. To let one's self be sucked blindly into such a situation was like giving up the upper hand before an upper hand even existed.

Draco had actually considered dragging Crabbe along to secure the upper hand, but in the end decided that would be overkill. It was probably just some little girl who'd been encouraged by his abnormally good mood since the Quidditch game.

__

Mmm… I'm slipping. Not to self: be more offensive.

Always be a moving target. _Oh yes._

He reached Charms class and paused with his hand on the doorknob to calculate time.

__

5 minutes to get out of the basement, 5 minutes to get up here. So it's about 9 I'd wager.

A fifteen-minute head start was more than sufficient. Nearly happily, Draco opened the door and froze.

In the classroom, perched boldly on Flitwick's desk, sat Harry Potter.

"Potter!" Draco yelped before he had a chance to think.

Potter jumped and stared at Draco.

__

Wonderful, just wonderful. I better get rid of him before what's-her-name shows up.

Then Draco had an idea, an awful idea that made his insides turn to ice. _What if…_

Draco shook his head. THAT was just to scary to think about. _Yet… Alright! Time for an emotional roll call. _Draco peered closely at Potter who had yet to say a word or move a muscle.

A dread, like the one Draco was feeling, had taken up residence on Potter's face, and rooming with it were nervousness and suspicion. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, in Potter's clear green eyes was something Draco was not expecting: relief.

"Potter," Draco repeated with a controlled dryness. "Did you send me that letter?"

"Uh…" Potter glanced warily around the classroom, anywhere but at Draco. "Yeah."

For the first time in his life, Draco didn't know what to say. "Oh." _Oh… oh god._

Potter jumped off the desk and began to babble. "I knew you wouldn't come if you knew I sent it. And I really need to talk to you."

Reflexively, Draco leaned back against a desk, managing to look calm even though inside he was screaming.

__

Harry – fucking - Potter likes me? Or was that just a ploy to get me here? Am I that predictable? 

No. NO! Always be a moving target.

"What… did you want to talk about?"

Potter's eyes bounced from the ceiling to the floor to Draco's face and quickly back to the floor. "I wanted to talk about yesterday."

"Yesterday." Draco repeated. Potter was watching his feet silently, so Draco sighed. "Alright, yesterday. Yesterday, 230 years ago, The Battle of Brandywine ended. Yesterday, 204 years ago, French forces defeated Russians. Yesterday, 85 years ago, the US First Army drove deep into German territory. Yesterday-"

"No. No! God, do you always have to be such an ass?"

Draco smirked. "Have to? No. Want to? Oh yes."

Potter made a disgusted face and turned away.

__

Oh. Never turn your back to an enemy, Potter. And make no mistake, I am your enemy. Part of Draco chided silently, while another part was busy planning.

__

What to do… What to do. _Play along with Potter's game and retreat? Or corner him and get some of my questions answered, like what the hell was up with that letter._

"Ok Potter. Let's dance."

He turned and blinked. "Wha?"

Draco sighed. "Ask your questions."

"Yesterday," Potter cleared his throat and shifted his weight, "during the Quidditch game, you, uh, li- licked me," Draco smirked but Potter persevered. "Um… why?"

"That's it? That's your important question? Easy. I needed to shock you so I could grab the Snitch and win the game. See, easy." Draco snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"Alright," Potter said. "Alright. But couldn't you have hit me or something instead?" I mean li-"

Draco tilted his head. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"Will you just answer the question?"

"Mmm… no."

"Oh come off it!"

"Come off what?"

"Can't you drop this act for a minute?"

Draco's smirk disappeared. "What act?"

--

In the dim, dusty, cobweb-filled secret room, two students crouched close together. Heads pressed together, Dean and Pansy sat listening in silence, until…

"Ouch! Parkinson! Be careful where you put that elbow."

Dean pushed Pansy away and sat defensively in front of the illusionary brick, trying hard to hear what was happening in the other room. Not caring that he'd pushed Pansy hard into a wall.

Pansy could have (_should have…_) shoved back, telling him it wasn't fair for him to hog the hole. That she had a right to listen, but something was gnawing at her. Something that felt like guilt.

__

But… But, it couldn't be. Never in her short life had guilt plagued Pansy. It was foreign, something that happened to other people.

Lying, cheating, extortion, blackmail. Pansy had done it all and had felt… nothing.

__

Why now? Why the crash of conscience now?

But she knew.

__

What's changed?

She knew that too.

__

Draco.

Draco. She'd met him when she was barely nine, at his ninth birthday party. Even then he was cool, collected and so much stronger than she knew she could ever be. Of course, back then that didn't matter to Pansy. He was a _boy_. He probably had cooties. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, her mother had other plans. The Parkinsons had never lacked money, but they'd never had prestige. They were new money with no history and no respectability in the cut-throat social world. But with a Pansy Parkinson Malfoy in their ranks? It would have made all the difference in the world. But friendship, her mother had preached, would have to come first… After that marriage would be a sure thing.

Pansy hadn't cared. But now? No, a new variable had been introduced to the equation: love.

__

I never meant to fall in love.

And yet, it had happened. And how. She was absolutely devoted to him: his style, his strength, his mind, his reputation, his beliefs, his entire being. She'd move her world to be with him.

__

And he would run away.

It didn't matter. She would protect him and she would love him whether he knew it or not.

__

And maybe one day, maybe, he'll know. And he'll understand. And he'll… feel.

Epiphany hit, and Pansy looked up. "We need to go." 

Dean turned sharply. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You, me." Pansy pointed. "We shouldn't be here. We've got to go."

"But we've hardly got to hear anything! After all the work I did to switch the letters!"

"It doesn't matter. This wasn't meant for our ears. Draco wouldn't want us to know."

Dean's expression softened, but only barely. "You really adore him, don't you?"

"Completely."

"You have no taste, you know?"

Pansy cordially ignored him. "Don't tell, though."

"Sure." Dean rolled his eyes. "If you're so head over heels for this guy, and may I say ick again, you should say something."

"My love," Pansy smiled wistfully, "is like a vampire from Florida."

"Bah?"

"She loves the sun, but she know if she ever sees it it'll be the death of her."

Dean watched her for a long moment, an unreadable look in his eyes. Then, he got to his feet. "We need to work on your metaphors Parkinson. But, just this once, I will do you a favour."

Pansy grabbed Dean by the arm and leaned her head against his shoulder as she led him out the secret door. "See! I knew you weren't a complete jerk. I suppose there's a little good in everyone."

--

"Don't play dumb!" Potter shouted. "You can't be such a complete jerk!"

Draco was dazed. _Act? ACT?_ Cautiously, he stepped back, letting his fingers run along the reassuring surface of the desk behind him.

__

My balance…

"What are you talking about?"

"You! You can't honestly tell me all this isn't an act! No one is this nasty in the real world!"

Draco's lips twisted up. "What do you know about the real world, Potter?"

"I know that there's a little good in everyone!"

"Everyone?" The "even Voldemort?" was left unsaid; it didn't need to be.

Potter paled and looked at his feet. "No. I suppose not everyone."

"So there." Draco's smile soured. "If you're wrong about that, then maybe you're wrong about me, eh?"

"No." It was said so quietly Draco couldn't quite hear it, but then Potter looked up, green eyes shining, and repeated, "No. I can't be."

"Hn. Do you really believe that?"

"Yes."

"More the fool you then."

"Give it up, Malfoy." There was an edge in Potter's voice now.

"Give _what_ up?"

__

Calmly… Don't lose control here. Don't lose. Not here. Not to Potter.

"Fuck! What do you want from me?" Potter flung his hands in the air. 

__

Nothing, everything. 

"I try to give you the benefit of the doubt! I try to be civil! I try to ignore you!" Potter continued. It was a sure sign of his anger that he was swearing. Harry Potter hardly ever swore. "This has been going on for 6 fucking years, why can't you be satisfied?"

__

Because I'm so empty. Draco shook away the renegade thought and frowned. "You want to know what I want from you?"

"Yes!"

"Victory, that's what I want. Can you give it to me?"

Harry, _no Potter!_, looked startled. "Victory?"

__

Way to go, boy. What ever happened to keeping this little plan secret?

"Yes, victory. I want to beat you."

"You're crazy."

"Quite likely."

Again, Potter looked shaken. Obviously the conversation had got away from him; obviously Draco's answers were forcing him to re-examine things he'd always taken as truth.

"Malfoy… Is this your father's-"

A little bit of anger welled up inside Draco. "This has nothing, _nothing_, to do with Lucius. Can't you except that maybe I'm exactly who I seem to be, by choice?"

"No." If Potter was anything, it was certainly stubborn. "I can't. All these things you say about… about…"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Mudbloods?" He offered.

"Muggle-born." Potter corrected irritably. "You can't possibly hate them like you seem to. You can't be that… racist."

"Hah! _Hah_!" Draco laughed loudly, turning his back to Potter and looking at the empty classroom. "I never knew you were such a hypocrite, Potter."

"_Hypocrite_?" Potter exploded.

Draco spun, stalked up to Potter and poked him in the shoulder. "You think I say Mudblood with any less hatred than you say Slytherin? All Mudbloods are idiots and not worth being nice to, I say. All Slytherin are vicious and not worth being nice to, you say."

"I-" Potter paused, flustered, and rang his hands. "I don't."

"Ok, let's pretend you don't." Draco turned his back again, ignoring Potter's quiet protest of 'I don't!' "Weasley certainly does, and he's your best friend. Quite a double standard you have."

"I- I- That's not the same!"

Draco looked over his shoulder, smugly. "Sure it isn't. Hypocrite."

"Fine. Ok. I don't care. That doesn't justify your behaviour. That doesn't justify how you've treated Ron and Hermione. That doesn't justify joining with Voldemort and trying-"

"What?" Draco interrupted in complete surprise again. "Joining with Voldemort? Since when!"

"Since…uh… ever?"

"That's another thing about you, Potter. If someone doesn't like you it can't possibly be that they just don't like you, no, they've gotta be working for the bad guy. There are no moral absolutes!" 

__

Not in wartime, and when have you or I ever lived in peacetime?

"But you always say things like-"

"I lied, get over it."

Potter glared fiercely. "Alright, but if you aren't part of the Jr. Death-Eater club why are you always so fucking horrible to me and my friends?"

Draco sighed dramatically. "I told you already. I want to beat you, I always have. Just you, not the whole wizarding world. Just you," _always just you._

Draco frowned. He'd always promised himself that this ambition of his would be secret, and now the one person who should have never known knew. He should have just let it go after the first slip.

__

Hunh. You're just pathologically unable of letting things go.

It was too true. Draco felt the little spark of anger in his stomach explode.

"Augh." Potter groaned. "You're impossible to talk to! I don't know why I tried!"

"Don't ask me! I thought it was a stupid idea from the beginning."

"I hate you!"

"Aw… You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Potter's green eyes met Draco's silver-grey ones. The sparks flying were almost visible.

--

"Shit," Seamus' foot hit a stair, "shit," he bounded across two and hit the third, "shit, shit, shit." Finally he reached the top of the last flight, sweating and looking slightly frightened. _Dean finally wants to talk and now I'm late. Ah man, he's gonna kill me!_

Seamus raced down the hall and around a corner only to come face to face, and nose to nose, with Dean.

"Dean!" Seamus exclaimed, for the moment completely missing Pansy's existence, but only for a moment. "_Parkinson_? What are you doing here?"

Pansy shrugged and grinned. "Just along for the ride."

"Unh-hunh." Dean said slowly and shifted his gaze back to Dean. "Dean, man, I'm so sorry I'm late."

Dean lifted an eyebrow haughtily. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Seamus swallowed; telling himself it was because he was still out of breath not because angry Dean made him nervous. "You know, the letter you sent asking to talk? I know I'm 15 minutes late, but still…"

Dean laughed shortly. "Why the fuck would I send _you_ a letter? And why would I want to talk? I've said everything I wanted to say."

It took about five seconds for Dean's words to process and in that time, three thoughts passed through Seamus' mind:

__

Jeez, Dean sounds pissed. What did _I do?_

And then,

__

He didn't write the letter? Wow, I feel dumb.

And finally,

__

Well fuck him! Stupid asshole!

"Yeah, yeah." Seamus sneered. "You made it pretty clear alright. You work alone. 'Cept for your little slut here." Seamus gestured at Pansy who reared back, insulted.

"You're one to talk!" Pansy spat.

"Leave her out of this." Dean warned.

Seamus stuck out his tongue. "Sticking up for your giiiirlfriend? I didn't know you were such a fucking gentleman, Thomas. Bet you're a lousy lay, though!"

The thud of fist hitting cheek thundered through the acoustically advantageous hallway. Seamus' head whipped back and stayed frozen there in shock.

__

Dean hit me. I can't…believe he did that.

Seamus wasn't sure whether to scream or cry. He felt like doing both.

__

Like fuck I'll cry in front of Dean. Luck's really not on my side tonight…

But, Luck brought Lavender.

"_Dean Thomas_! How dare you!" Lavender stormed down the hall to stand between Dean and Seamus, her hands on her hips. She glared hotly at him and then whipped around, her curls flaring in all directions. "Are you okay Seamus?"

"Yeah, I guess." Seamus rubbed his cheek and glared over her head at Dean. Dean looked back, his near-black eyes cold and emotionless. Like a black hole, a void. 

"Here," Lavender said, "I know a back way into the kitchen, we can get you some ice."

"Yeah, okay." Seamus let himself be dragged off by Lavender, without a backward glance.

__

I won't look back, I won't. Dean doesn't need me; well I sure as fuck don't need him.

--

Hair? _Washed and styled, check._ Face? _Helpless, pouty but not irritating, check._ Tears? _Ready and waiting, check, check, check._

Ginny stared into her mirror and took a last deep breath: it was time to put phase one of Operation Overlord into action. She spun on her heel and stalked out of the girl's dorm.

In the Commons, students were spread in tiny clumps, finishing the last of their homework. A quick scan of the room and Ginny had spotted her victim; she moved in for the kill.

"Colin!"

"Alright, Ginny?"

She took his hand and gripped it tightly, staring into his eyes with all she was worth. "I need your help! I've heard something awful!"

Colin's eyes widened to a nearly impossible size, a loving tribute to the acting ability of Ginny Weasley. "What's wrong?"

"I- I can't talk about it in public. Can I speak to you alone?" Colin looked doubtful so Ginny let some tears brim and tried again. "Please! I need to talk to someone I can trust. I know I can trust you, Colin!"

"Uh…" Colin looked hesitantly at his friends, most of whom grinned encouragingly. "Alright, I guess. I'll help anyway I can."

Ginny had to stop the smug grin that tried to worm it's way onto her face. She nodded and pulled him into a more secluded corner of the Commons.

"What's wrong?"

"It's- Oh! I heard something awful about the new Quidditch balls!"

"What!" At the word Quidditch, Colin's face became 200 percent more worried than it had been. Colin really loved Quidditch.

__

Naive bastard, Ginny thought with a mixture of disdain and pity.

"Yes!" Ginny sobbed. "I heard Malfoy talking today! He says his father is the one buying the balls for the school! He said he's going to rig them so that Harry never wins again! Imagine!"

"Oh my god!" In a private corner of her mind, Ginny was howling with laughter. "What are we going to do?"

"Well…" Ginny wiped her tears away. "I was thinking we sneak into the broom shed after the delivery and destroy the new balls."

"But…" Colin looked torn. "Then there will be no balls to play with!"

Ginny took up Colin's hands again. "It's a small price to pay to ensure Harry doesn't lose again, isn't it?"

Colin looked back at her. "Yes," he breathed.

Ginny _did_ smile this time; she had him.

--

"Ouch!"

"Don't move." Lavender instructed. "I want to see how bad it is."

"It's not that bad, honestly!" Seamus protested, shifting in his seat as the house-elves hovered anxiously around him.

"Unh-hunh…" Lavender drawled. "Then why do you keep saying ouch?"

"Uh…"

Lavender pressed the crushed ice against Seamus' cheek and he yelped again.

"Honestly, you can be such a baby." She blew a curl away from her face. "All your going to have is a big bruise… Dean is such a jerk. He shouldn't have punched you."

Seamus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You don't even know what was going on."

"Doesn't matter." Lavender snapped. "Nothing you could do can excuse his behaviour!"

Seamus reached up and touched her hand. "Thanks Lavender, I appreciate it." Lavender's inside turned to goo and she blushed. Seamus didn't notice, he was wading too deep in self-pity. "I just can't believe what an idiot I was…" Seamus sighed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I got this mysterious letter earlier."

"Yeah?" Lavender asked excitedly.

"I was _so_ sure Dean wrote."

The world stopped. For one horrible second, everything around Lavender froze in a mocking pantomime of reality.

"You – thought – _Dean_ – wrote it?"

Seamus laughed self-mockingly. "Yeah, I know. What was I thinking? Dean's not like that. I guess it was just wishful thinking on my part.

Lavender's head reeled; she threw down the ice and got to her feet. "Wishful thinking?" She asked in a squeaky voice. "Oooooh! I _hate_ you Seamus Finnigan!" She whipped around and stormed out.

"What'd I say?" Seamus called vainly after her.

--

It was kind of funny, the feeling brewing inside Harry's stomach. Anger mixed with hate, a liberal dash of irritation, but spicing it was apprehension. Or was it excitement? Harry couldn't tell.

His pulse was pounding against the skin in his neck, so hard he wasn't why it hadn't broken through his skin yet. And he couldn't find his heart; it seemed to have migrated from his chest to his throat. Maybe that's why he was having trouble breathing… Maybe it was Malfoy's searing gaze that was making Harry's skin feel like it was burning…

__

This is silly. I'm being ridiculous.

Malfoy took a step forward, his eyes (_like mercury, liquid and metallic_, Harry thought distantly) burning into Harry's.

As naturally as night follows day, Harry took a step back.

Malfoy advanced.

Harry retreated, and retreated, and retreated until his back was pressed against the stone wall of the classroom. 

Harry swallowed hard and licked his lips. Part of him dreaded what he knew was going to happen next and part of him refused to believe it, but a part Harry hadn't noticed before couldn't wait.

"I hate," Harry whispered in a husky voice, his eyes tracing Malfoy's lips, "how you always get the last word."

Malfoy smiled a smile different from his usual smirk. "I know."

And their lips met in a tangle of teeth and tongues and saliva.

--

Nearly Headless Nick floated through the corridor faster than usual. He was nearly bubbling over with excitement, although it wouldn't have been obvious to someone who didn't know him well.

"Baron! Please wait, Baron!" He called to the wispy figure ahead of him.

The Bloody Baron paused and turned. "Good evening, Nicholas."

Nick grinned. "Guess what I've seen…"

The Baron looked at Nick's grin and groaned. "I don't think I want to know."

"Guess."

"Malfoy and the Potter boy?"

Nick's smile widened and The Baron sighed theatrically.

"You win the pool then."

"Yup!" Nick carolled and the two floated down the hall.

"We better go tell the others. The Fat Lady will be so disappointed, she only missed by another three hours."

Nicholas nodded as they disappeared from sight through a wall.

Ghosts live in the past, not the present. Soon, very soon, the night's observations would slip from their memories.

They would never be able to tell what they saw in Charms class.

- end part four -


	5. colour scheming

A/N: It's the "Harry and Draco get together with little or no explanation" chapter! Muahahaha! Fear me.

Any rate, the next part will mark the end of what I refer to as "phase 1." Phase 2 is likely to be longer and a bit angstier. Not everything is duckies and bunnies, yes? But, I do solemnly swear to finish this story. I will not give up like so many have! I will prevail!

This weeks thanks go out to: Celestinne (you reviewed again! You dear, dear girl!), Fyre Eye (you reviewed for the first time! Thank you!), Sheron (you'll keep me from slacking off, right? It's a dirty job but someone seems willing to do it. I can't thank you enough for that and your loyalty) and Bekquai (for the single most wonderful review I have ever received in my entire fanfic writing career! Muah!)

Now, I'll shut up and let you read what you REALLY came for.

- colour scheming -

__

Oh, times like this it's hard to see

With any kind of clarity.

What's the point of wondering anymore?

So much I just can't figure out

I'd love to know without a doubt for sure,

For sure,

Where do we stand?

Great Big Sea, "Clearest Indication"

Ron couldn't sleep.

He'd tried, but he couldn't. Sleep wouldn't come.

Shakespeare believed, and many after him as well, that insomnia is a symptom of a guilty heart. Your daytime peace replaced by nightly hell. Monsters in your mind. Devils in your blood. Demons in you DNA.

If Ron could have, he would have ripped his heart out and torn it to pieces with his own hands. It would have been quicker and cleaner than the slowly ripping heartbreak he lived with.

He stared into the flickering depth of the fireplace. He was alone, on the floor, in the Commons. Alone was good, for now at least. He didn't know what he'd do if someone were to see the tears on his cheeks.

Doubt was not his friend. Doubt was why he was alone. Doubt and hesitation and fear and stupidity and ignorance and, _and God_, unworthiness.

__

I'm not worthy of all that she is. How could I be?

He covered his face with his hands. He didn't deserve the light of the fire.

Lavender had told him about her crush on Seamus three days ago. She'd talked about the way the sunlight filtered through his hair, and the way he spoke, and his sense of humour. She'd told him over and over again how much she loved the Irish boy, but Ron knew: Lavender had no idea what love was.

Ron knew.

He knew with every look, with every syllable, with every heart-wrenching movement of her fingers. Her soul was more a part of him than his own. To part with her when their time at Hogwarts had come to an end would be more than painful; it would be mortal. Fatal.

He loved Hermione with every laugh and with every tear and with every angry word. Life without her was no life at all.

The portrait door creaked open; Ron jumped as Harry entered.

Harry's face was pale and his eyes were fearfully bright. He clutched his invisibility cloak around his shoulders and looked around him wildly, as if the world had just dumped in a pit of acid and Harry was the only one to notice it was slowly melting. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

The boys' eyes locked on each other's faces and both immediately looked away. Ron took the moment to brush the tears from his face, and Harry straightened his shirt and hair.

"What are you still doing up?" Harry asked finally.

Ron shrugged with forced carelessness. "Not much. Planning how to squash Slytherin in the next match. I couldn't sleep. What about you?"

"Ah…" Harry blushed and sat down on the couch near Ron. "Couldn't sleep either. Took a walk."

They fell into vaguely comfortable silence, staring into the fire.

"Harry?"

"What's up?"

Ron took a deep breath. "Have you ever been in love?"

If Ron had been looking at Harry, he would've seen the green-eyed boy pale rapidly. "Wh- what?"

Ron kept his eyes fixed on the fire. "I don't mean like the crush you've got on Cho Chang. I mean really in love."

Harry's features relaxed and he leaned forward to place a hand on Ron's shoulder. "Are we talking about, uh, Krystal here?"

If Ron's smile had been any more forced, his mouth would've been bleeding. "Yeah. Krystal."

"Let me give you some free advice, Ron."

Ron snorted. "Free advice is never cheap."

Harry ignored him. "The advice is, when it comes to love _don't_ take my advice."

Ron tilted his head back to lean against the couch and look into the face of his best friend. There was something haggard in Harry's expression, confused maybe and a little frightened. Ron smiled a genuine little smile. "What _have_ you been up to tonight, Harry?"

"Something I would never have dreamed of doing." A look of cruel irony passed across Harry's face.

"Oh?"

"And something I'm not going to talk about." Harry finished.

"Ah," Ron waved his hand at Harry. "You're no fun."

"Not tonight, no."

There was something so oppressively secretive in Harry's eyes that Ron dropped the subject without hesitation. He turned his eyes back to fire and sighed dolefully.

"The torches we bear, eh?"

"Yes," Harry agreed in a whisper and in a quieter voice, one not for Ron's ears, "how long before I get burned?"

--

Three floors lower, Draco entered Slytherin House. There were no prying eyes here to spy the pale boy's late night entrance. No one to comment on the maniacal grin on his face, or the telltale flush on his icy skin. Or the muted fear in his eyes.

Draco rushed through the Commons and into the dorm. His body was quivering with suppressed emotion as he reached his bed and jumped in, pulling the curtains around and not even bothering to change out of his clothes.

Draco had always believed the way to victory over Potter was through his friends. Friendship was Potter's one major weakness, and, with friends like Weasley, a weakness that was easily exploited.

Now, Draco had found another. And in the oddest of places…

Well, not a weakness per say. Potter had pushed him away, called him mad and run out of the classroom, and that wasn't the behaviour of someone head over heels in love.

__

But, but… If he did love me! I could win this, I really could. Beat him mind, body, soul and HEART.

Draco shivered and stared up through the curtain top at the ceiling beyond, woven with intricate shadows. He lay on his back like that for many minutes, not thinking, simply feeling.

Adrenaline poured through his veins, the most seductive of drugs. He could taste victory; it tasted of salt and wintergreen toothpaste.

__

Funny how Potter thought to brush his teeth first.

His pulse was racing.

His heart was missing beats.

His lips were parted breathlessly as he relived the meeting over and over. It was perfect.

__

No, not perfect. Perfectly imperfect.

To make Potter love him, not an idea of him, not some false character made for the purpose, but the real Draco Malfoy, that would be true victory. Completion.

He would only have to be careful that he didn't fall in love himself.

Draco dismissed that with a mental shrug. _It would never happen. Not with someone like _Potter_ certainly._

Oblivious to the foreshadowing in the air, he rolled over onto his side and went to sleep.

--

Ginny woke the next morning in high spirits, hopping out of bed at the first crack of light through the curtains.

Ginny was a woman with a plan, and there was no time to waste.

"Good morning Ginny," came a polite voice from down the rows.

Ginny glanced suspiciously over her shoulder, then relaxed. "Oh. Good morning Hermione. Did you sleep well?"

Hermione, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a book in her lap, sighed and tossed her curls over a shoulder. "Not really, but thank you for asking." She uncrossed her legs and walked over to Ginny's bed, being careful not to wake anyone else in the room. "You seem happy though. Sleep well?"

"Very well!" Ginny gave her best "adorable younger sister" smile. "I'd love to talk, but I've got to meet with some friends in the Hall."

"Oh?" Hermione smiled calmly. "Colin Creevey? You two seem very close these days."

"Yes…" Ginny's smile grew mysterious. "Colin Creevey…"

"Well, go ahead. I'll join you presently. I'd like to finish my chapter first."

"Alright." Ginny waved. "See you there!"

As Ginny walked out of the dorm, she laughed under her breath. _Colin Creevey my ass!_

--

Crabbe was worried. Goyle was worried too. Crabbe and Goyle were worried. Crabbe was worried about Draco. Goyle was also worried about Draco. They were very worried. They were worried about Draco. They were very worried about Draco.

Contrary to popular belief, Greg Goyle and Vince Crabbe did not share a brain. If they had shared a brain they might have had the cranial capacity to find their way out of a paper bag. As it was, they did not.

Greg and Vince led happy, if simple, lives. They ate, they slept and they beat the crap out of anyone who dared look at Draco the wrong way. Or cough in his presence. Or say unflattering things about his mother. (Truth be told, they would've done this Draco or no Draco. Both Greg and Vince had crushes on Draco's mother. It wasn't their fault; she was _hot_.)

Draco was, to put it simply, their reason for being.

Now don't misjudge them! It's not like they were star-struck fans or anything, but they had an arrangement with Draco. They were his muscles and he was their brain. He might have been getting the better part of the deal, but they didn't care. He treated them with respect, and that was better than they got from the rest of the school.

And now something was wrong with Draco.

They had tried, that morning, to convince him to go down to breakfast and he'd refused. He'd mumbled something about "Too much work to be done" and wandered off. It wasn't just frightening, it was downright alarming. And with Draco's low blood sugar too!

Still, Greg and Vince knew all too well the price to be paid for angering their boss. They decided it was easier (and much, much safer) to bring something back for him rather than force him to come. Which is why they were rushing their food down their throats as fast as their saliva could slip it.

They were caught entirely off guard when a Gryffindor girl approached their table.

"Crabbe, Goyle," the tiny red-haired girl said briskly, "I would like to talk to you."

Vince and Greg exchanged a glance, forks halfway to their mouths.

Vince decided to represent them. "Whadda ya want?"

The girl cleared her throat, her fierce brown eyes gleaming. Her eyes reminded the boys a little of Draco's. "This matter is not for the ears of your…" She glanced contemptuously around the Slytherin table. Most of the Slytherin were trying to pretend she wasn't there. "Friends," she finished after a long pause.

"Anything you can say t'us, you can say ta them." Greg growled, trying his best to imitate one of Draco's better glares.

"Really?" The girl's eyebrows raised. "Well then, you," she pointed at Greg, "wear pink frilly underwear, and you," her finger gravitated toward Vince, "like to write Vincent Malfoy on the back cover of your textbooks."

The other Slytherin were suddenly much more attentive, some covering their smiles with a hand and other laughing outright.

Vince rose out his seat. "It ain't true!" He cried.

Greg balled up a meaty fist. "I'm gonna pound you, little gurl!"

She held out a hand. "Stop. I have more, would you like to hear?" Greg and Vince gave her twin glares. She smiled. "Or you can come with me as I asked."

They had no choice. Greg and Vince slide off the bench and followed the girl to a corner of the Hall.

"How…" Vince paused. "How'd you know 'bout that?" He asked quietly.

"I have sources." The girl replied and tossed a bright smile over her shoulder to Pansy Parkinson.

"I'll kill her!" Greg roared starting towards Pansy.

Vince shook his head and placed a restraining hand on Greg's shoulder. "Then Draco'd kill us."

"This is fascinating, really." The girl interrupted. "But can we get down to business?"

"Whadda ya want?" Greg and Vince grumbled in tandem.

"First of all, my name is Ginny Weasley. You may call me Miss Weasley." Greg and Vince shared another glance. _This girl is crazy_, they both thought. "You two are going to help me."

"Do what?" Greg asked warily.

"Destroy Quidditch."

"WHAT? You're fucking nuts!" Vince screeched.

"I am not!" Ginny protested. "And you will do as I say."

Greg folded his arms across his chest. "Why should we?"

Ginny grinned. "Because, if you don't, the Hogwarts Gossip will get the anonymous tip that last week Gregory Goyle was screaming 'Ms. McGonagall, not the whip!' in his sleep and that Vincent Crabbe keeps one of my brother's Quidditch robes under his pillow."

"But those are lies!" Vince protested.

"And I care why?"

Vince and Greg stood speechless: they had been outmanoeuvred. This wasn't hard to do, but it didn't happen often.

"Whadda we do?" Greg asked in resignation.

Ginny's, Miss Weasley's, smile widened. "Excellent. We meet tonight at the bottom of the third floor staircase at 7:00. I will introduce you to your partners in crime then. Good day Gregory, Vincent." She nodded professionally and walked off, leaving Vince dazed and Greg confused.

--

Cho Chang clasped her hands behind her back and surveyed the row of children with military precision.

These were her new recruits, first years of every shape, size and house. They had been carefully observed over the past weeks. These were the ones that had shown the most style, guts and intelligence.

Cho, being a professional, knew that her first duty was to scare them into submission.

"You have been chosen," she told the cowering group, her black eyes flashing critically, "to serve as the newest generation of the Hogwarts Gossip. You have been chosen because you are the best and brightest each house has to offer.

"But understand this, you leave your house colours at the door! I am not your girlfriend, I am not your third grade teacher. Do not expect me to coddle you, and no matter how smart you are, remember you are all scum to me. You will earn respect; you will work for it. You will not eat, sleep or breathe until you have made your deadline. Clear?"

A shuffle and a weak chorus of yessum's passed through the recruits.

Cho raised her voice and straightened her back. "Are we clear?"

"Yes ma'am!" They shouted.

"Good," Cho fell into a parade rest, "dismissed!"

The recruits scattered and Cho adopted a less military stance, running a hand through her black hair. One of the older reporters laughed.

"You wait for this day every year, don't you Cho?"

Cho grinned fiercely. "I don't hear you working."

The reporter held up his hands and smiled. "I'm working, I'm working."

Cho, editor-in-chief of the Hogwarts Gossip, walked back to her makeshift desk in the makeshift office the Gossip had erected at the end of a deserted hallway and kicked her feet up. 

Cho was beautiful, brilliant and athletic. She could do anything, but the Gossip was her first love and she ruled it with an iron fist.

The Hogwarts Gossip, "We print anything, anytime," wasn't an official newspaper. Cho and her execs went to great length to keep their presence from coming to the attention of the staff. Even the majority of the students didn't know who ran or worked for the paper.

The first rule of the Gossip was you don't talk about the Gossip.

"Cho," one of the Hufflepuff gophers startled her out of her reverie, "Pansy wants to see you."

"Send her in!" Cho exclaimed.

It was odd to think that two such different girls could be so close. Gorgeous, friendly Cho was like a ray of sunlight to ugly, crafty Pansy's shadow.

Cho owed her a lot though. After Cedric's death, Cho had been nearly catatonic for a long, long time, unable to function even on the smallest level. Without Pansy to take the lead, the Gossip would have fallen into such disarray that Cho's life's work would have been unsalvageable. Without Pansy's patience Cho was sure she would have never recovered.

Contrary to her nature, Pansy hadn't exploited this debt. Instead, the girls had formed a healthy, professional relationship.

Pansy entered the room.

"Morning Pansy." Cho smiled and motioned for her to sit down.

Pansy shook her head, preferring to stand. "Morning Cho."

"You got something for me today?" Pansy was also Cho's top reporter.

"Actually, the reason I'm here is 'cause I have something to tell you." 

There was something serious in Pansy's voice. Cho sighed. "Oh god, don't tell me you found someone else."

"Yeah." Pansy smiled.

"Is she good for you?" Cho asked teasingly.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "A he actually."

"Oh boy. Who is it?"

"Can't tell."

"He's got you that bad, eh?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

Cho knew Pansy too well to let her get away with that. "Pay's good?"

"Well, yes. But honestly I'd do it for the humour value alone. Those Gryffindors are really fucked up y'know?"

"I always suspected." Cho tapped a finger on her desk and thought of Harry. "But, look hon, you dropped some information."

Pansy smiled again. "And who says that wasn't on purpose? Consider it a parting gift."

That surprised Cho. It wasn't like Pansy to drop hints unless…"That good a story?"

"My intuition tells me this could be it." Pansy paused. "The Big One."

The Big One. It had been Cho's pursuit her whole life. A story everyone would want to know. Not just everyone in the school, but everyone in the world. Something so juicy and secret it would leave everyone breathless.

"Your intuition is pretty good." Cho said quietly. "Thanks."

"No problem." Pansy said as she headed for the door. "See you around."

When she was gone, Cho wasted no time. "You!" She shouted at a passing Ravenclaw.

"Me?" The Ravenclaw asked in surprise.

"Yes! Find me Padma Patil! Now!"

It was time to recruit a Gryffindor insider.

--

Harry was going to kill Ron.

It was bad enough that Harry had been up 'til god knows what unholy hour editing and re-editing his mental recording of that night's _other_ activities. It had taken hours before Harry's recollection of… "That Thing" played out to his satisfaction. Before Harry actually believed it was all Malfoy's fault.

And then Ron hadn't reminded him they had Divination early that morning. Harry's so-called best friend hadn't woken him up either, and now Harry was late and Professor Trelawney would kill him. Probably by throwing him out the Divination room window. Harry shivered, even for a Seeker used to heights the thought of that fall was terrifying.

To make matters _even_ worse, _only in my life could things be worse_, Harry was certain he was being followed. Or maybe the repeated attempts on his life were finally making him paranoid.

__

First paranoia and then I'll completely crack. I can see it now: "Why Professor Flitwick, sir, you're looking a lot like Voldemort today, sir!" God…

Footsteps sounded behind Harry. He refused to turn.

Footsteps, now combined with surreptitious paper shuffling, bounced from floor to ceiling to wall. Harry couldn't stand it; he turned. Before he'd turned all the way around some sixth sense already knew who was behind him.

Malfoy. Malfoy with his hair combed back in its usual impeccable style. Malfoy with his shoulders slouched in their usual carelessly graceful way. Malfoy with his lips (although Harry was trying _really_ hard not to think about Malfoy's lips) set into their usual smirk.

Malfoy looking so unimpeachably _usual_ that for an instant Harry was willing to write off… That Thing as only a dream.

__

A fever dream maybe… I almost wish.

Harry sighed. "Why are you following me, Malfoy?"

"Following you?" Malfoy's eyes blazed with innocence. "I'm just heading to class."

"Slytherin has herbology now," Harry pointed out.

"So?" Malfoy quirked his lips infuriatingly.

"So we're on the _third_ floor!"

Malfoy made a show of looking around him. "Why, so we are."

Harry closed his eyes and reminded himself that wringing Malfoy's neck was _probably_ illegal. "Some people might consider this harassment."

"Some people are idiots, what's your point?"

"I need to get to class, did you actually want something from me? Or were you just lonely?" Harry shifted his weight nervously. 

"Actually, I did want something." Malfoy said, straightening his posture a little. "I decided to skip the angsty avoiding you bit and go straight to the 'we need to talk' step."

That was more or less exactly what Harry had been afraid of. "There's nothing to talk about."

Malfoy leaned against a wall and smirked harder. "Well, unless I'm wrong – and y'know, I'm not – we have a _lot _to talk about."

Harry gripped his books to his chest and began to turn. "There's nothing to talk about. _Nothing _happened."

Malfoy clucked his tongue against his teeth. "Lies again Potter?"

Harry glanced at the boy over his shoulder and frowned. "Not lies. As far as I'm concerned nothing happened."

"But that's not the truth, is it? If the truth doesn't serve us, what does that say about us?"

Malfoy's voice held a reflective, serious quality Harry had never heard before. He turned back around. "What is the truth then?"

Malfoy pushed off the wall and moved towards Harry with a light swagger.

__

Malfoy could swagger in his sleep, Harry thought as long, pale fingers wrapped around his collar.

"You want the truth?" Malfoy asked, his face serious but his eyes smirking. A weak jerk of his hands and Malfoy had pulled their faces nose-to-nose. With a studied calm, Malfoy leaned forward and brushed his bottom lip against Harry's trembling top one; then he leaned back again and stared Harry in the eye. "You can't handle the truth."

Harry wiped his mouth against the back of his hand, but he didn't move out of the boy's grip. "You've cracked. Either that or this is a trick."

A smile ghosted across Draco's – _Malfoy's, dammit _– lips, and he shrugged. "Sure. A trick. Every once and a while, declare peace. It confuses the hell out of your enemies."

"Peace?" Harry's brain felt horribly sluggish, churning out a thought every three minutes. His lips were still burning.

__

Maybe Malfoy was wearing acid lip-gloss or something… It would make a hell of a lot more sense than believing he means…means…

Malfoy heaved his shoulders in a stage sigh. "Listen Potter, if you can't keep up maybe we should do this some other time."

"No!" Harry shouted and then frowned. _He was _offering _to leave and I stopped him, what the _hell _is going on?_ "I mean, you're right. We should, ah, get this out of the way now."

Malfoy fingered Harry's collar and nodded. "Alright. _Is_ there a this?"

Harry cleared his throat and tried to ignore Malfoy's knuckles brushing his neck. "No. Think about it. It's insane. With who I am and who you are. Or at least who your father is."

"With who I am." Malfoy snickered and looked at Harry through his eyelashes. "But, you'll never win anything if you're busy counting all the reasons you'll lose."

Harry flushed. "Do you have a book of one-liners or something?"

"I keep it under my bed." Malfoy drawled.

That was almost pleasant conversation. _Something is very, very wrong here…_ Harry jerked out of Malfoy's grip suddenly. "Is this another of your twisted mind games?"

"Honest answer?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"What?" Harry blinked.

"Yes." Draco repeated, his smirk acquiring a razor edge. "This is another mind game. Do you want to play?"

"…We'll…see." Harry said slowly, not at all sure what to make of that answer. "I… have to get to class now."

Malfoy nodded and snapped off a mocking salute as Harry rushed away wearing a blush to rival some of Ron's best.

__

What the HELL _is going on?_

--

Second period was Hermione's spare. The rest of the world though it sucked; you still had to wake up early. Hermione liked the peace and quiet of it though. She could actually get work done.

This particular spare was being dedicated to finishing her Muggle Studies myth project.

It had taken a long time for Hermione to settle on a topic for her essay. There were too many fascinating Muggle myths to chose from. In the end, feeling sufficiently self-pitying, she had settled on the myths surrounding Cupid, god of love.

__

There is one god not listening to my prayers… Stupid Ron…

Hermione shook her bushy hair and began to cross words off the scroll in front of her.

Cupid, she had discovered a few days ago, was much too broad a topic to cover. Since the Professor had put a limit on the length of the essay, Hermione had to specialise.

__

Idiotic woman. Can you not just let me work? Hermione, of course, would never risk voicing this opinion, but it was how she felt.

So, she had to choose one detail, and out of novelty's sake, she chose the arrows.

Gold and lead. One for love and one for hate. Get hit with the gold one and bam! You loved the next person your eyes happened upon. But hit with the lead one? That same person could end up your worst enemy. It all depended on the arrow Cupid drew.

__

Luck of the draw, yes?

It had happened, apparently. People meant to be hit with gold ended up being pricked by lead. Like Apollo and that silly nymph girl.

__

Causes a lot of trouble if you ask me. He should just carry one.

That had been the most interesting idea to Hermione's mind. Cupid carried love and hate, why? Because love and hate required a lot of one thing: passion. To hate someone you had to care. Someone very wise had once said, "The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference." Same coin, only different sides.

__

Lead is silver coloured, is it not? A bored part of Hermione asked. _Silver and gold. Hate and love._

Hermione's eyebrows rose at that thought and she lifted her tie for inspection. Red stripes ran against gold ones in an ever-descending spiral.

__

What's red's complimentary colour? Hermione wondered, picturing a colour wheel in her head. _It's green, isn't it?_

She laughed quietly and wondered if some Supreme Being had meant to do that. 

__

Green and silver. Red and gold. Can you picture Gryffindor's poster boy and a Slytherin?

She snorted to the silent dormitory.

__

Oh, but take it one step further. Gryffindor's poster boy and_ Slytherin's_. _Malfoy and Harry! God that would be a show I wouldn't miss for the world._

The laughter was too much this time, she buried her head in a pillow.

__

That would never happen in a million years though. Still, the idea of it…

--

Pavarti Patil was being shunned.

Ron was trying to be subtle, but it was obvious from the way he kept glaring over his sandwich at her that she was not going to be forgiven easily.

__

Jeez. It's not like I meant anything by it…

It really didn't matter though. _Her_ world wasn't going to come crashing down just because Ron Weasley was mad at her. Ron Weasley was a Weasley for god's sake! Like they mattered.

Now _Harry_, there was someone with social clout. Maybe he lacked style, and he was a bit of a textbook hero (minus the strong jaw line and Herculean physique, unfortunately), but he was still a star. Definitely someone to know.

Although, maybe all the pressure of stardom was getting to him. He'd been looking pale since Div. He'd been sort of spacy too, hardly noticing when it was announced he would die a horrible, horrible death again that week.

He looked, Pavarti thought, practically in love.

__

Now that _would be news worthy. The Boy Who Lived, Loved. Great headline material._

Suddenly, as though attracted by some magnetic force only he could feel, Harry looked up, his eyes fixing on something farther down the Hall. Pavarti stealthily shifted in her seat to follow his gaze.

Malfoy.

__

Ah, not love then. Hate. Pity. … Man, can that boy move though.

Malfoy wove himself in between students with the grace of…well…a snake. He was, honestly, the pinnacle of style. Self-confidence embodied. Suavity personified. Malfoy could commit sexual harassment simply by sitting very quietly in a room.

His gaze swept the room empirically; his eyes taking in everyone and thing; the word "insects" written plainly on his smirk.

Now _there_ was a boy born to be a star.

Malfoy's eyes lighted on the Gryffindor table and he began to walk toward them, Goyle and Crabbe trailing behind helplessly.

Ron's Malfoy radar went off and his head snapped up. "What the hell are you doing here? Slumming?"

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up and he smiled one of his perfect smiles. "My god, Weasley. Have you been spending too much time with Trelawney? You just read my mind."

Ron started out of his seat, stopped from rising completely by Hermione's hand on his shoulder.

__

Weasley vs. Malfoy: Fight of the Century. Pavarti thought, picturing the headline in her head.

"Well," Ron was hissing, "don't let us keep you."

Malfoy's eyes flickered to Harry who was watching him with a look of supreme confusion on his face.

__

Endearing, yes. Attractive, no.

Malfoy's lips curled up. "Why, Weasley, are you trying to get rid of me?"

"You know bloody well I am!" Ron's face had gone red and his hands clenched to fists.

"Well do it," Malfoy challenged. "Or does your girlfriend have such a _hold_ on you, you can't even do that?"

Every student in Gryffindor house shared a moment of panic: Hermione was a _very_ touchy subject with Ron. _Very_.

"She is _not _my fucking girlfriend!" Ron spat.

Hermione looked horrified and instantly let go of Ron's shoulder. Malfoy laughed.

"Why, I do believe you've hurt her feelings. Not used to rejection Granger?"

"Go away, Malfoy." Hermione said quietly. From where Pavarti sat, it looked like there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh?" Malfoy quirked a gorgeous eyebrow. "I'll go if Potter tells me to."

All eyes shifted to Harry. He flushed and returned Malfoy's steady gaze. A deep breath and Harry's mouth opened. "Don–"

"Forget that!" Ron shouted, grabbing his half eaten sandwich. "Eat this Ferret Boy!"

The sandwich flew through the air, twisting and losing bits of lettuce along the way. Ron's aim wasn't great and the sandwich only clipped Malfoy's cheek before landing on Crabbe's shoe.

Malfoy stood stunned for a very long moment, then, slowly, he reached down and picked up Neville's bagel.

"Catch, Weasel!"

Before the bagel even landed, the whole house was in motion.

--

Blaise Zabini was God's straight man. He was one of those uncanny individuals born without a trace of a sense of humour.

Around him kids may have been hurling food, and teachers may have been handing out detentions left and right, and Potter and Malfoy might have been seen sneaking out of the Hall; it didn't matter. Blaise would not crack a smile.

A carrot flew past Blaise's ear and landed in his slice of pie.

Blaise sighed and banged his head on the table. "I hate this school."

--

Draco dashed around a corner, pulling Potter with him. He dropped the boy's hand and leaned his head against the wall, purposely revealing a large expanse of throat.

"Fuck that was fun," he panted.

Potter, breathing equally hard, half-frowned and bent over his knees. "I guess."

"What's your problem?"

Potter gave him an irritated glare. "I really wish you'd stop insulting my friends."

"Sure you do," Draco shrugged, "but you knew that wasn't going to happen going into this."

"Not really," Potter straightened, "you just, kinda…"

Draco waved a hand back and forth. "Details, details. Now get over here and kiss me."

Potter rolled his eyes but smiled. "Oh Maaalfoy. You're sooooo romantic."

A strange feeling tugged on Draco's heart, but he ignored it and laughed. "Get over here you git."

--

"Leave me alone Finnigan!" Lavender shouted, dodging between the Herbology workstations, trying to lose the Irish boy following her.

"But I don't even know what I did!" Seamus pleaded; his friends were dropping like flies these days. "How can I be sorry if I don't know what I did?"

"If you don't know," Lavender spat, "I'm not going to tell you."

Seamus reared back and crinkled his nose. "How does that make any sense?"

Lavender spun and stamped her foot. "It's not about sense! You… you… _led me on!_"

"I what?"

"That's right!" Lavender cried, warming to her subject. "You played with my heart! Trifled with my emotions!"

"Oh." _Oh…_ Suddenly things made sense. At least, more sense. "Lavender, I didn't know. I'm sorry. You're a great friend, but…"

"I know! I know!" She threw her hands up and sat down on the nearest bench. "Don't you think I know? You're already in love."

__

I am? "I am?"

She screwed up her features. "Sorry, don't want your secret out in public do you?"

"What _secret_? I have _no _idea what you're talking about."

She jumped back to her feet and turned an accusing finger on him. "Don't play dumb with me! You're in love with Dean!" Without another word, she sniffed and walked away.

"I… am?" Seamus asked to the empty air.

"Miss Patil, Miss Brown," Sprout sang over the crowd, "Miss Padma Patil would like to speak with you."

--

"Come on Potty! Can't you chop those roots more evenly?"

"I'm about ready to stuff these roots up your nose, Malfoy."

"That wouldn't be nice."

"Since when did you become an expert on nice?"

"You have to know what nice is to not be it, Potter."

"I hate you."

"_Really_? You're just saying that... Ohhh! I hate you too!"

Laughter.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Shut me up."

A board of finely chopped roots was tipped over.

"Look what you did!"

"Shut up, Potter."

"Shut me up."

Snape stared. It was all so… flirtatious. And pleasant. And civil. And… not Potter and Malfoy! It was wrong.

"Professor…" A little Slytherin hissed as the Potions Master walked past his desk. "What's wrong with them?"

__

I don't know… I don't want to know… "Keep your eyes on your own cauldron." 

An explosion brightened the classroom and Neville Longbottom cried out. "Uh… Professor Snape, sir?"

With a last worried glance at Malfoy and Potter, Snape stalked over to Longbottom's cauldron (or, rather, the remains of it.)

__

I really hate this class.

--

"Harry, I'm your friend." Ron began as he and Harry walked out of Potions. "You know you can trust me and tell me anything. So, I'd like you to answer this question. Answer truthfully."

Harry shrugged. "Sure, Ron."

"HAVE YOU GONE COMPLETELY INSANE?"

"Uh…" Harry blinked.

"Keep your voice down Ron." Hermione hissed, walking up behind the red-haired boy.

"Do you realise you were being _nice _to Malfoy?" 

"Um…" Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Was I? I hadn't noticed."

Ron made a face. "Oh Malfoy, are these roots thin enough for you?" Ron switched his voice to an impressive imitation of Malfoy's drawl. "Not thin enough, Potter dearest, try again. Gag!"

"You're exaggerating," Hermione pointed out.

"Barely!' Ron squealed. "Since when are we friends with Malfoy?"

"We aren't!" Harry protested. _Not friends, certainly… Not anything, really…_ "I honestly hadn't noticed, but if he's being…tolerable I don't see why I should go out of my way to pick a fight."

Hermione whapped Ron on the shoulder. "You should try that sometime."

"No way! You'll never get me hanging around Ferret Boy!" Ron peered at Harry closely. "So you promise? You and Malfoy aren't… secret friends or anything?"

__

If the truth doesn't serve us, what does that say about us? About me?

"I promise."

Hermione sighed. "Too bad. It would have been like Romeo and Juliet. Without the romance of course."

__

Of course. Move along folks, no romance to see here.

"Ugh." Ron stuck out his tongue. "I can't even think about that and Malfoy."

"You rang?" asked a chilly voice from behind them.

The three friends turned around. 

Ron's muscles tightened reflexively. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy brushed the hair out of his eyes and sneered. "Nothing from _you_. I need to talk to him." He ticked his chin towards Harry.

"What do you want from him?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy drew himself up haughtily. "None of your business, that's what."

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but Harry stepped forward and held up his hand.

"All right, Malfoy. But you better make it quick." Harry looked at his friends. "You guys go ahead, I'll see you at dinner."

"Harry are you su-"

Hermione grabbed Ron's arm. "Let's go Ron," she whispered. "Harry can fight his own battles." She dragged the protesting Ron off.

When they were safely out of sight, Harry turned back to Malfoy. The other boy was smirking as per norm, but his posture conveyed genuine amusement not smugness.

__

When did I learn to speak Malfoy-ese?

"I heard you three talking," Malfoy started. "We may have a problem."

"Oh?"

"Snape wanted to talk to me after class. To make sure I wasn't sick or something."

Harry laughed. "We were acting off, I guess. It's odd though; I can't find you completely detestable anymore. And there's something really, really wrong with that."

"Mmm…" Malfoy glanced over his shoulder at a large painting. "Be careful, the walls have eyes."

__

And ears, oh yes.

"In the future…" Malfoy said.

"What makes you think there is a future?"

"Shut up Potter." He snapped affectionately, if Malfoy snapping could be considered affectionate. "In the future, we should find a more, ah, secretive place to do this."

Harry felt an idea percolate. "They cleaned out the broom closet yesterday." He blushed. "There's, um, lots of floor space now."

That won him a rare not-a-smirk-but-actually-happy smile. The kind that made Harry wonder how he could have thought Malfoy's face was pointed and sneering all these years. _He's beautiful when he smiles… And when did I start thinking like an 8th grade girl?_

"I love how your mind works sometimes." Malfoy drawled.

"Meet me there tomorrow night at 8?"

"Deal."

--

Ginny ran her fingers through her hair and gave her troops a calculated glare. Vincent, Gregory Colin and Justin Finch-Fletchley returned the glare warily.

They were gathered in the shadows of the third floor staircase, _obviously_ up to no good.

Ginny cracked her knuckles and began: "The new Quidditch balls are being delivered tomorrow. Justin and Colin, you will be on lookout duty. Vincent, Gregory, you will wait near the back window for me to pass you the cases. We will then take them into the Forbidden Forest and have a bonfire."

"When do we do all this?" Justin asked meekly.

"Tomorrow night. At 8. Don't be late." 

-end part 5-


End file.
